


Spy

by SeparationBoundary



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1940s AU, American!Eren, Anal Sex, Angst, Austrian!Levi, Cigarettes, Fluff, German!Erwin, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, NO excess gore, Oral Sex, Pining, Polyamory, Shootings, Smoking, Soldier!Eren, Spy!Levi, Violence, WW2, double agent!Erwin, handjobs, knifings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeparationBoundary/pseuds/SeparationBoundary
Summary: Who is Emile LaPlace?  What is his connection to the German, Erwin Schmidt?  Why does the big blonde man call him ‘Levi’ and why can Eren Yeager not get him out of his head?
Relationships: Erwin Smith/Eren Yeager, Levi/Eren Yeager, Levi/Erwin Smith
Comments: 29
Kudos: 71





	1. The Yanks

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to call this work 'inspired by' because I had mostly finished it when I read the incredible fanfic 'Dresden' by the amazing Hedera-Helix but I will say it encouraged me to pick this work back up and finish it. If you have never read 'Dresden' I encourage you to do so IMMEDIATELY. As far as I am concerned it is a classic and a must-read!
> 
> Also a special shout out to @Nechrollomicon on Tumblr for her help with the French curse words contained herein and my wonderful Discord friends who helped me with the German!
> 
> Finally, any French or German language mistakes that are here are entirely my fault (I don't speak either). If you see any, please let me know! <3

Prologue

1942 - London, England

Dr. Hange Zoe of the US Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps hurried along, thin coat clenched tight in the chilly air, the heels of her shoes clicking on the stone cobbles. London should have been colder this time of year but it was just cool and rainy. Even the breeze coming off the river wasn’t too bad.

He was waiting for her, seemingly eagerly, same place as usual, and as soon as she saw him her pulse quickened. He was a small man but devilishly handsome with pitch black hair slicked back with Brylcreem and a thin black mustache. He wore a long grey tweed overcoat and carried an air raid warden’s flattish Brodie helmet with it’s large “W” on the front.

When he spotted her he didn’t quite smile but his expression warmed. 

“Dr. Zoe - Mademoiselle - you look lovely” The dapper little man murmured in heavily French accented English, gently taking her fingers and pressing his lips to the back of her hand. Dr. Zoe colored immediately and couldn’t help but shiver at the contact. She chuckled. 

“You’re someone different every time I see you, but always a charmer.” She gestured at the Brodie helmet, “Who are you today?”

The man executed a crisp, quick bow.

“Alastair Johnston,” he said in a suddenly faultless London accent, “air raid warden, Wall st., Rose parish, at your service.” He slicked his mustache with one finger. It looked good on him, the mustache, so good that if Dr. Zoe hadn’t known better she’d have thought it was real.

The man straightened, extending his elbow and Dr. Zoe threaded her arm through his. They began to stroll along the Thames.

They spoke of fluffy bits of nothing interspersed with things that could bring down nations. Occasionally Dr. Zoe would throw back her head with a fake laugh or flash a genuine smile. 

And on they walked. 

After about 20 minutes Dr. Zoe took a quick glance around and slipped the man a thick envelope which he quickly secreted inside his coat.

“These were almost impossible to get. Pixis said tell you they might be the last. There’s only the film left.” she said, low.

“They’ll do,” the man said. “Thank you.”

Dr. Zoe smiled then and extended her hand, he took it in both of his gloved ones. They took a few moments to part, speaking softly. Finally, he bowed stiffly, nodded, and walked away. Dr. Zoe did as well, walking unhurriedly in the opposite direction. 

They had only about 25 feet between them when a handsome brown-haired man rounded a corner at right angles to them.

At first he only had eyes for Dr. Zoe. He raised one arm.

“Hange!”

The small, black-haired man hesitated at the name being called out behind him and glanced back. The men locked gazes. The brown-haired man frowned.

“Moblit?”

It was Dr. Zoe. She hurried to him, grasping his arm, tugging him in the direction she had been walking. She carefully refrained from looking backward where the black-haired man was slipping around a corner and out of sight.

“Did you know that man, Hange?” Moblit asked.

“Who?” 

“That little man ... in the grey overcoat.” 

“I don’t know any man here, Moblit. Just you.” She patted his arm reassuringly “I was just walking to the hospital tents. Will you come with me?”

Moblit nodded and with one quick puzzled look at the corner around which the other man had vanished, followed meekly.

Around said corner the black-haired man slowly lowered the Browning model 1910 semi-automatic pistol that he held tight to his body and sighed, relieved. After a few moments, he moved off.

  
  


Chapter 1 - The Yanks

[Rose Street]

Privates First Class Eren Yeager and Jean Kirstein of the 104th clung to the sides of the Jeep as it sped through the London streets, bounding over the cobbles like a frightened sheep. 

After several more minutes of tooth jarring bouncing they pulled up in front of a tiny, dour house in a quiet London street called Rose Street. 

The sergeant rang the bell while Eren and Jean grabbed their duffles. They stared at the house, fascinated. All the houses here were built at different times and each resembled its neighbors not at all. On one side there was a three-story Victorian and on the other a plain brick box two stories tall. The house between them, the one Eren and Jean were to be billeted to, was two stories, narrow, clapboard construction and sort of quaint.

The house was a sitting room and kitchen downstairs, a bedroom, a bath, and a small guest room or servant's quarters upstairs. In addition there was a tiny finished attic. The attic in question was just big enough for a single bed and a minuscule dressing table that served as a desk.

The whole was owned by a Mrs. Stafford whose husband had died in the Great War and who had no children. Due to the size of the house (and not her nature), she had hoped she wouldn't be billeting. So when the call came in she was discomfited, to say the least. She refused to give up her bedroom where she had slept with her husband and she already had a boarder in the microscopic attic room. That left only the servant’s room and they were sending her two,  _ two _ men! And why did they have to be men? Why not send her a couple of nice American nurses?

She was greatly unsure of the  _ American _ part. She had heard that they were vulgar and loud. Would these two boys be vulgar and loud? She wasn't sure her heart could take it. And what would her boarder think?

There was a crisp knock at the door. Mrs. Stafford jumped then hurried through the parlor to the front door. 

"Sergeant Moblit Berner, ma'am."

The handsome brown-haired man saluted perfectly.

Mrs. Stafford was not too old to be immune to handsome men and their perfect salutes.

"Oh, oh, Sergeant!"

"I've brought your American soldiers to be billeted," He swept his hand towards them almost like a magician during his show;  _ Presto Changeo, are these your Americans? _

Mrs. Stafford admired her charges. The one private was tall, sandy-haired, lean, and handsome. The other private was cute, slender, brown-haired, and green-eyed and neither looked a day over 16.

Mrs. Stafford ushered them in.

Not counting the 16-year-old privates (Eren was actually 19, and Jean 20), Mrs. Stafford thoroughly enjoyed a good looking man. Sergeant Berner was so handsome in an understated way and so polite. 

After the tea and her slender store of chocolate biscuits was gone, the Sergeant took his leave and Mrs. Stafford climbed the steep stairs to the second floor, trailed by the two soldiers.

Two twin beds had been jammed into the servant's room (Mrs. Stafford had explained to them that, back in the day, this would have been the maid's room) along with a bedside table, a shallow wardrobe, and a single chair by the window. There was just enough room to walk around the beds.

"Supper is at 6:30, in the kitchen. Please don't be late."

Mrs. Stafford excused herself.

The younger man, Eren, sighed and tossed his duffle onto the nearest bed. He followed his gear with his own self, flopping bonelessly onto the duvet.

"Oh my god, real beds!"

Jean chuckled and took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and drew open the window to let the smoke dissipate.

The Americans appeared in the kitchen at 6:20, scrubbed, changed, and hair slicked down. Mrs. Stafford was so pleased.

There was already a person at the table. In the chair at the head of the table (where Mr. Stafford sat, long ago,) was a small, lean, handsome man. His skin was creamy, his hair jet black, and his deep-set, bedroom eyes, a pale, silvery blue.

Eren and Jean’s reactions were different - Jean thought he looked suspicious, Eren found him incredibly attractive. They both paused, did a double-take, and recovered (with a glance and raised eyebrows at each other) taking their places at the table.

"Oh, boys, this is my boarder Emile," Mrs. Stafford bubbled.

The man extended one strong, slender hand.

"Emile LaPlace" he murmured 

"Jean Kirstein,” Jean said, extending a hand, “And this is Eren,"

Eren offered his hand eagerly, "Eren Yeager,"

The man was taciturn, barely smiling. He seemed friendly though he said nothing more.

Jean and Eren sat down. Supper was a very small roast, mash, and English peas. Eren ate as if his life depended on it while darting quick glances at the black-haired man.

Emile and Mrs. Stafford both ate with a knife and fork (in the left hand, tines down) and they both watched with a combination of horror and fascination as the two Yanks quite literally shoveled their food up with just forks - turned tines up.

"I'm sorry about the roast," Mrs. Stafford said finally, heaping more potatoes onto Eren's plate, "Rationing and, well, the selection's not too good anymore."

"Don’t worry about us," Jean said, "It's great to get home-cooked food."

Eren polished off the second mountain of potatoes and nodded.

  
  


Emile and Jean removed to the courtyard to smoke. 

Mrs. Stafford’s house had a tiny back garden in a tiny brick-walled courtyard with a doorway that led out into the alley between it and the Victorian. Mrs. Stafford had done her patriotic duty by planting vegetables in the undersized plot of dirt between the house and what used to be the stable. Cabbage, onions, and a huge mound of potatoes competed for sunlight with trailing, brightly-colored nasturtiums.

On the wall above was a garish poster with a big eared man with a narrow mustache: _ “Careless talk costs lives! Mr. Hitler wants to know!” _

Emile smoked slender French cigarettes with dark paper, holding them between his middle and ring finger. He studied Jean carefully as the other lit a Camel.

"I thought Americans only smoked filtered cigarettes," He said,

He had a strange accent, like half of Europe blended together. 

Jean just shrugged, looking down at the man.

He towered over LaPlace but the small man seemed unperturbed.

He was a cool one

"So you're French? What brings you here to London?"

"Actually I was born in Austria. My father was French. My mother was German."

"Ouch," said Jean, gaze flickering to the poster, "That's awkward,"

Something flashed in Emile's eyes then, something bright and dangerous.

"You have no idea," he murmured.

"So you're here on business?" Jean persisted.

Emile decided that these lanky Americans could be a problem. He took a deep drag on his cigarette and let the smoke out as he spoke,

"You could say that. I'm a spy."

Jean jerked, startled, and Emile pinned him with his pale eyes. A thin smile tipped the corners of the foreigner's mouth up.

Jean frowned, angry that he'd reacted, "You shouldn't say things like that Mr. LaPlace,"

"Like what?" a cheerful voice asked. It was Eren, clutching a tattered sheaf of papers.

"Mr. LaPlace was just fooling around," Jean said tightly,

"Look what I got!" Eren enthused, oblivious to Jean’s discomfort. 

He held the papers up, "Foreign newspapers! I thought it'd be fun to see what they said!"

"They're in French and German," Jean observed, snickering, “Which you don’t read.”

Eren's face fell, "Oh, yeah ..."

It was La Place who spoke; "I read and write German, French, and English fluently. I also know a bit of Russian and Dutch. Perhaps I can help.”

Eren was ecstatic.

The papers were Swiss, Austrian, and French. The Swiss and French were in French, the Austrian in German. The papers were old - several months old - but were fascinating in their own way.

Emile patiently translated everything Eren asked for, smiling his thin smile at Eren's enthusiasm, reading the French out loud, translating the German, and offering his own point of view on what was printed. 

“Why don’t you read out the German?” Eren asked curiously thinking that the other man’s French was beautiful.

Emile’s gaze flickered to Jean.

“I try never to speak German here in my adopted country …” He waved a hand vaguely around at the Union Jacks everywhere and the propaganda poster “… considering the circumstances.”

It didn't take long for Eren to find himself thinking more and more about the dark-haired boarder; those thin black brows above his deep-set blue eyes, his perfect proportions despite being shorter than Eren. 

Emile spent most of his time in his attic room, only coming down for meals and to listen to news of the war on the wireless. He did leave the house several times a week, donning his black overcoat over black trousers, white shirt, braces, a waistcoat, tie and jacket, and staying gone all day till suppertime.

Eren couldn’t figure it out. Emile couldn’t be a laborer dressed as he was and he couldn’t have a clerk’s or shopkeeper’s job; his time away from the house wasn’t regular enough.

Eren just wanted to know more about him. Maybe if he knew his job they could chat. The thought of idly talking to the handsome boarder about anything - or just being close to him - made Eren blush and his heart pound.

_ What the hell was it about that sharp-eyed little man? _


	2. Sgt. Berner

The boys were getting settled in well, considering, when, several days later, on a Friday, another knock sounded at the door.

“Oh, Sergeant Berner!” Mrs. Stafford fluttered around like an old hen at the sight of the brown-haired American, “and who is this?”

The who immediately smiled and held out his hand. “Corporal Marco Bodt ma’am”

If Eren and Jean looked cleanly wholesome, Marco Bodt was an actual angel. He was tall, olive-skinned, and black-haired, with an open face and earnest nut-brown eyes. Add to this the sprinkling of freckles across his upturned nose and the image was complete. Mrs. Stafford was smitten. 

“Sergeant, what brings you two here so late?”

“We thought we’d invite Kirstein and Yeager to the pub. That’s an appropriate English thing to do, right?”

At that moment Emile appeared at the end of the hall and stopped abruptly. He didn’t gesture or call out or even smile. He just watched, poised alertly like a fox watching a rabbit. 

Marco didn’t catch sight of him but Moblit did. He and Emile locked eyes and Moblit frowned slightly. Something in the back of his brain whispered to  _ be careful _ . Did he know this man? Sgt. Berner jerked himself back to what Mrs. Stafford was saying. 

“... the pub my husband favored!”

“Ma’am?”

“The Black Dog? Just ‘round the corner?”

“Sounds wonderful Mrs. Stafford,” Marco said.

Mrs. Stafford fluttered around a bit more then crossed to the bottom of the stairs. 

“Boys?” She called up the steps, “Boys, your friends have come round to see you!”

Abruptly Emile was right there. Moblit started.

_ God, he moves fast _

Emile slipped between Berner and Mrs. Stafford and mounted the stairs. 

“I’ll get them Mrs. Stafford” he murmured, then jogged agily up. 

Mrs. Stafford, oblivious, smiled fondly. “That’s my boarder Emile. Wonderful man. Such manners! He can be a bit cold though. Must have had a distant mother. I think he’s of the Jewish persuasion, but I’m not sure. Such a shame what —“

Eren came clattering down the stairs at that moment, shaking hands with Moblit and pounding Marco on the back. Jean was right behind him, the two of them thankfully stemming the tide of information and speculation from Mrs. Stafford. 

Emile had vanished.

As the four Americans strolled down the street, Moblit looked back. The black-haired man was stood at the very edge of the stoop, watching them go.

Moblit shook his head trying to rid himself of that worried voice in his head.

As they made their way down the street they all relaxed a bit, the rigid formation of ‘superiors first’ melted and they suddenly just resembled four friends ambling down the cobblestones to the local public house.

“I thought we might not get you out of there!” Marco said, grinning.

Moblit snapped back to himself and nodded, “God yes. I tried to take Reiner and Bertholdt out for a pint and the crabby old shrew they’re staying with wouldn’t let them go. Said they have a curfew,”

Jean and Eren commiserated.

“Sooo,” Eren drawled with a pointed look at Marco, “aren't you gonna ask horseface how he is?”

The effect on Marco was instantaneous. His cheeks flushed a ruddy color and he refused to look anyone in the eye.

“Private Kirstein … ah …” Marco smiled at the ground, “... how are you?”

Jean rubbed the back of his neck, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Fine,”

Jean then elbowed Eren in the ribs.

“Stop calling me that!”

“So how is - ow! - Connie?” Eren asked, ignoring his friend.

Marco grinned, his embarrassment forgotten,

“Connie is sweet on some skirt,” Moblit said phlegmatically

Marco glared at him,

“Not ‘some skirt’! A very nice English girl, a nurse!”

“He met her when he came with me to the infirmary.” Moblit said, “A Sasha somebody.”

Eren was delighted. Marco and Jean were slowly developing a thing. Moblit was seeing the lady doctor, Dr. Hange Zoe, who was in charge of the nurses, and it was pretty serious. He managed to get by the infirmary almost every day and followed her around like the lovestruck fool that he was. And now Connie? Eren couldn't be happier for his friends.

He frowned. But what about _ him _ ?

The image of Emile La Place’s sharp face invaded his mind. It was Eren’s turn to blush.

Their night out was a roaring success.

Moblit, despite being their senior, was one of the guys. They had all been together - the 104th service corps - since its inception. True, their job wasn’t glamorous, they weren't flyboys or jeep jockeys or even infantrymen, they were just clerks, guys in charge of the stores. But they all knew that the United States Army depended upon them. They weren't even a full division - an illness had most of their buddies quarantined in the hospital tents - Moblit and Marco were the only officers well and on duty - but such as they were, they were all fast friends.

The local citizenry was relieved, pleased, and a bit apprehensive about their newly arrived American cousins. They were happy that they were there to fight for the cause but the two societies were so different. Subsequently, when the four men entered the Black Dog, both sides were startled. The natives were not used to sober men being so brash and loud, the Americans were not used to a bar being so quiet.

Multiple sets of eyes fell on them as they tumbled in the heavy low door. Jean and Eren, one of whom had the other in a headlock, were oblivious. Marco and Moblit, who were trying for respectable, both colored and grabbed at their friends. The two younger men broke apart and grew quiet.

The pub was one long room, the ceiling sagging from end to end. One short wall held a hearth big enough to walk into that was piled up with logs, burning merrily. Halfway down a long wall, the plaster gave way to an open space with a half wall topped by a single long piece of polished wood - the bar. There were tables and chairs in the middle of the room and tables with high backed settles against the wall. It wasn’t crowded but the few gazes were mixed. Every man in the place was smoking - including the barkeep - and two gentlemen had their dogs sleeping under their chairs. Smoke from the fire and the cigarettes filled the place and the thick air smelt of it and bacon and sausage and that certain tang of old beer.

The boys were delighted.

By the end of the night and last call, the American boys were spread out amongst the locals. Eren and Jean were at the same table, drunk as fools, listening to stories and laughing. They sat with a retired shepherd from Yorkshire who had moved to London to live with his daughter. Moblit was at the bar chatting with the bartender and Marco was frowning in concentration over a game of checkers (the Brits called it ‘Draughts’) and was losing badly. It seemed the average Englishman could play draughts or darts with unerring skill despite being three sheets in the wind.

They had all been informed (being unmarried ‘boys’ as they were) about a dance being held at the local church hall and everyone had been heartily invited. The truth was that with the dearth of local lads--gone to fight the war--the influx of the young Americans had caused the local girls to get their hopes up of finding a nice Yank to marry.

As everyone was gathering their walking sticks, dogs, caps, and coats, and shuffling toward the door, Moblit remembered a question he had.

“Mr. Tees?” he said, standing unsteadily, “Mr. Tees, d’ya know Mrs. Stafforses … Mrs. Stafford’s boarder?”

The broad man--the barkeep and owner--nodded solemnly, gathering mugs.

“What do you think of him?”

“Your mates’r billeted there, yeah?”

Moblit nodded.

“Well, he’s a strange bloke. A furriner and all …”

(It was amusing to Moblit--when he was sober--that Europeans were suspicious ‘furriners’ but Americans were A-ok.)

“But I never seen nothin’ amiss about ‘i'm. Pays his tab and does for Mary.”

Moblit nodded and tacked toward the door.

“G’night Mr. Tees,”

“‘Night, lad,”

Moblit frowned as the pub’s door closed behind him with a heavy click and he concentrated on putting one foot ahead of the other. There was something … something more, something he couldn't put a finger on, about Emile LaPlace.

The dance proved to be that next week and the night of the dance found Eren being belligerent.

Emile cocked his head. 

"You're not going?"

Eren dug his hands into his pockets and ducked his head sheepishly.

"I don't know how to dance," he confessed.

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" Emile stood, wetting his finger and thumb with saliva and pinching out his cigarette. He carefully put the butt into his waistcoat pocket.

Eren glared at him, pouting.

"Oh calm down," Emile murmured, taking Eren’s hand. "I'm not saying  _ you're _ ridiculous. Look, watch my feet, I'll show you."

And Emile did a small, slow box-step without letting go of Eren’s hand.

"Can you do that?"

Eren's eyes shone.

"Just put your feet facing my feet. It's easy." The smaller man took Eren’s other hand and led the blushing American into a careful dance.

"It's better with music," Emile murmured, pulling Eren closer

"I ..." Eren began then went quiet realizing that he had no idea what to say, only that he was enjoying this, craving this.

When Emile ducked his head and Eren felt the man's lips brush his neck he closed his eyes in bliss and contentment

And of course, Mrs. Stafford chose that moment to step into the parlor.

Eren tried to jerk back from Emile who held him in a crushing grip, preventing it.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Stafford

"Can you believe, Mrs. S, " drawled Emile, continuing to dance cheek to cheek with the young serviceman, "that Eren here had no idea how to dance?"

Mrs. Staffords body language relaxed completely

"Oh? Oh! That's just a shame!"

"I am forced to give him lessons so that he and his mates can go out dancing tonight."

Mrs. Stafford smiled happily,

"Oh, Emile, that's so good of you!"

Emile inclined his head graciously and gripped Eren tighter.


	3. The German

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies my wonderful readers! I have been without internet for SEVEN DAYS (yes it was HELL) and so I am behind in posting. Please forgive me! I'm posting Ch 3 or 'Spy' and Ch 5 of 'Lonely at the Top' and then will resume the regular posting schedule starting tomorrow (Spy on Sun and Wed, LaaT on Mon and Fri) Thank you for your patience!

It was a dreary day, overcast and cool, as Emile left Mrs. Stafford’s. He was well aware of the brown-haired young American serviceman watching him from behind the living room curtains. He snugged his coat up closer to his neck and smiled thinly.

After a short ten minute walk, Emile found himself winding through the maze of streets in Cheapside. When he reached his destination - a rather severe three-story - he made no attempt to approach it but ducked around a corner and watched.

He lit a cigarette, gulped down the thick bitter smoke, and studied the front of the house. He knew the movements of the man he was seeking but not his schedule. He settled down to wait, pulling his coat closer around himself. 

There was only one person in sight, a short man in a faded black coat. Emile regarded him warily but he did nothing untoward. He appeared to be lost. Emile kept out of sight.

Emile had just crushed out his cigarette when another man brushed past him. The man wore a shabby brown cloth coat with a brown leather collar and leather patches on the elbows. The elbows were worn and the collar had been handled so much it was shiny with wear. He ignored Emile while Emile tried hard to look like a regular Englishman returning from work, pausing for a smoke before getting home to the wife. The man swept by and went on.

The two men, one in the brown coat one in the black, seemed to know each other--they spoke briefly--then wandered out of Emile’s sight. Emile lit a second cigarette and resumed his vigil.

Finally, after over a half an hour, during which it had started to drizzle, a cab splashed up and disgorged a tall figure which hurried in out of the rain.

Emile finally moved.

He, despite his nice shirt and trousers and good wool coat, wore well-worn military-looking leather boots. Using their knobbly soles, Emile went up one of the drain pipes bolted to the outside of the building like a spider. Outside a third-story window he paused. The light went on in an adjacent room and Emile fiddled the window lock open with his pocket knife. Gently sliding it up, he eased into the room.

The doorway was bright from the light in the other room--Emile was in the bedroom. The light was coming from the sitting room. He crept up to the doorway and peered around the jamb.

The sitting room was small and covered in pink and green chintz, obviously the work of a woman’s hand, but the figure crouching over the coffee table was a man. A tall, muscular, blond man. His eyes, Emile already knew, were a pale, brilliant blue. 

The man was hovering over an odd device on the coffee table - a small machine that had been hidden in a small suitcase. It had a lever and a button that he was clicking repeatedly - it was a telegraph.

Emile, crouched in the doorway, listened to the rhythm of the clicks. He, like this man, knew Morse code.

The message was brief and the blonde man soon stood, carefully fitting a few folded clothes into the case on top of and around the machine. As he closed the lid Emile spoke in German:

“Those numbers were wrong, you know, Erwin.”

He straightened up as Erwin jumped and whirled around.

“Levi! Mein Gott!”

Very few people in this world knew Emile’s real name but this man, a German and a member of Hitler’s Wehrmacht, did.

Erwin switched to accentless English.

“Y-you heard? Did I do well?”

Emile stepped across the rug to the big man and reaching up to grab a handful of bright blonde hair pulled his head down and kissed him deeply.

The larger man moaned into Emile’s mouth, his strong hands wandering everywhere over Emile, stroking, squeezing.

  
  


The next morning Emile, or rather Levi, sat--entirely nude--on the edge of the bed, smoking. Erwin was half-buried in the fluffy duvet, the morning sun gilding his shoulders and one cheek. His blonde hair looked like strands of real gold in the bright sunlight. Eventually, he stirred.

The small, dark man cast a glance at Erwin as he sat up and stretched.

Erwin caught sight of him and immediately blushed. He stuttered in German.

“Y-you’re naked …”

Emile’s grey-blue eyes narrowed.

“Erwin, I sucked your dick six hours ago and you took mine up your ass after that. You’re getting shy now?”

The big man was brick red now.

“Levi, you …”

“Ah, ah, ah.  _ Emile _ .”

“Emile, you say things like that just to embarrass me,”

Emile took a slow drag off his cigarette.

“Perhaps so,”

“Are we still safe?” Erwin asked suddenly, “Is there anything else we need to do?” His pale blue eyes were full of defiance.

Emile immediately covered his hand with his.

“There are some Americans at my place--being bluntly inquisitive as only Americans can be--but they’re no problem.” Emile assured him, “We are fine,”

He squeezed the blonde man’s hand before standing.

“Now we just need to deliver that film to the Wehrmacht and we’re done.”

Erwin nodded.

  
  


Eren was obsessing over Emile again. He couldn’t seem to shake him; the thoughts, the feelings. He felt like a stupid schoolboy but he’d never had feelings like this. Certainly not for a person of his own gender. But truth be told, the man popped into his mind at the most random and sometimes inconvenient times; the sharp angle of his jaw, the inky black hair, the muscles bunching under his plain white shirt. Just yesterday Eren had glimpsed the man in an undershirt; the cotton clinging to his torso, the thin straps emphasizing his broad, powerful shoulders. To his embarrassment, he’d gotten hard at the sight and had had to make the excuse of bathing to jerk off in the bathroom.

Emile always spoke civilly to Eren and always gazed intently and 

expressionlessly at him when he spoke, those grey eyes cold and intelligent, but the young American couldn’t tell if Emile was even aware that Eren was attracted to him, or even if Eren existed beyond the dinner table. 

These were the thoughts that crowded his young mind as he exited the only bathroom - crammed between the two bedrooms - his hair still damp. He paused in the hall, enjoying the feeling of being clean. He wondered what time it was. Probably close to one a.m. Mrs. Stafford was away at her sister’s and Jean was asleep. Eren was looking forward to his own bed. Maybe he’d jerk off. Just the thought of a nice wank with Emile in mind made Eren’s face hot.

He was on the landing, just heading for his room when he heard the sound of a … typewriter? At one in the morning? Emile had come in late--much later than Mrs. Stafford would have allowed had she been there. What did he do when he stayed away half the night? Where did he go?

Was he still awake, too?

_ Who could that possibly be if not him? _

Eren froze in the center of the hall, listening. 

He stepped close to his own door and caught his friend’s soft snore. He peeked in. Jean lay on his stomach, sinewy arms disappearing under his pillow. 

Eren retreated, listened again

The only other openings into the hall were the stairs downstairs and the narrow set up to the attic. Eren crept toward the latter. 

The sound came again. It  _ was _ Emile. Or someone in Emile’s room. Eren strained his ears. Definitely a typewriter … well, maybe. He could hear a slow, then fast, then slow  _ tic, tic, tic-tic-tic _ . It was funny sounding, without a cadence, and stopped and started inexplicably. Weird. Emile struck Eren as someone would type quickly and efficiently. 

  
  


The next afternoon Eren happened to catch Mrs. Stafford in the kitchen running the wet laundry through the wringer.

“What is Emile writing, Mrs. Stafford?”

“Pardon?”

“Emile,” Eren said, “I heard him typing in his room,”

Mrs. Stafford looked puzzled. 

“He didn't have a typewriter when he came. Just one suitcase and his wireless.”

Eren was puzzled but that didn’t dampen his  _ ardure _ . He couldn’t help himself. He couldn't stop thinking of the small dark-haired man. He wondered what his hands felt like, what his lips tasted like, what the hell he was up to in that attic.

Mrs. Stafford interrupted his reverie.

“Eren, luv, would you be a dear and help me with these sheets?”

The Americans had quickly learned that “helping” meant “doing” in the woman’s vocabulary. Neither of them had a problem with it though. Mrs. Stafford had no husband and no sons to help her and it seemed that Emile had become the surrogate husband and Jean and Eren the surrogate sons to her.

Eren thought of Emile as he hung the heavy cotton sheets over the line and spread them out. He barely heard Mrs. Stafford’s reminders to use four pins, not three.

God, the small dark foreigner was fascinating. He’d never felt like this about anyone before. Every time they met--in the narrow corridor between the sitting room and the kitchen, at the table, in the tiny courtyard--Eren felt hot all over and dry-mouthed.

He secretly liked both boys and girls. That wasn’t a problem but he’d always crushed on girls. Could he be smitten with a guy? Could he have a relationship with a guy? The thought made him tremble. A relationship with Emile, all the things they could do …

Of course, that led to the sad thoughts of how they’d have to keep it a secret. Jean and Marco had to be vigilant. It was actually against the law to be gay in England at that time.

Eren huffed out a sigh and lifted another sheet.

Two miles away, Moblit Berner sat at his commander’s desk (The unfortunate commander in question was wracked with influenza in the hospital tents along with almost the entire division.) Moblit was fiddling with a biro instead of signing papers. Marco stood close by, filing yet another hefty stack of documents.

“Marco?”

The other man paused and turned his head.

Moblit and Marco were two sides of the same coin. They were remarkably similar. Same tall, sturdy body type, same warm brown eyes, same quick smile. They both were mild-mannered, level headed, thoughtful sort of men, fiercely devoted to the people they loved and serious about their duties. They could've been brothers. 

“Marco, remember that Frenchman? Emile? Over where Eren and Jean are billeted?”

Marco came around the desk. 

“Sure. Small fella? Black hair?”

“Yeah …”

“Something the matter with him?”

“I don’t know,” Moblit tapped the biro, “I swear I’ve seen him before,”

Marco frowned, a look out of place on his handsome, open face.

“Just around?”

“Here. On the base.”

Marco laughed then, softly.

“He’s not a soldier, Mobe. He’s not one of ours. How could he get --”

“I don’t know,” Moblit scrubbed his face with both hands. “I just swear I’ve seen him here. By the hospital tents.” He slapped the biro down, “There’s something dicey about that guy I just know it!”

  
  


Later that day, at the base, Eren was supposed to be working but was daydreaming. They were sorting uniforms and Eren kept picking up the same item then putting it down only to pick it up again.

“Eren …”

“Eren …?”

“Hey, peckerhead!”

Eren snapped out of his reverie.

“Huh?”

Jean snickered and Marco laughed outright,

“You were totally in La La land there, chum!”

Eren grinned sheepishly,

“Sorry!”

“Time for you to go. Sargent Zacharias wasn’t kidding about you helping him in the motor pool.” Marco said. 

Eren snapped into a crooked salute,

“Yes, sir, Corporal Bodt, sir!” He snatched up his jacket and bounded for the door, “See ya horseface!”

Eren left with a backward wave. 

“Dumbass,” Jean said. 

Marco grinned to himself, picked up a folded uniform top, shook it out, refolded it, put it down, smoothed the fabric ... He glanced shyly sideways at the sandy-haired private. 

Jean was staring out the window at a retreating Yeager.

“Say, Marco?”

“Yes?”  _ A bit too eager, _ Marco chastised himself silently. 

“Does Yeager seem … odd to you? I mean lately?”

“Uh … what? E-Eren?”

Marco drifted close to the private who was still looking out the window. He carefully reached out and, very lightly, touched his hand to the other’s back, between his shoulder blades. He withdrew it quickly

“Yeah. I swear he’s been off-kilter lately.” Jean mused. “It’s something to do with that French fella, I’m sure of it!”

He seemed to suddenly realize that the other man had touched him.

He turned to the dark-haired corporal and instinctively looked around, but they were in a locked storeroom on the second floor. They were safe from judgemental eyes. Marco gazed at Jean, all big brown eyes and freckles dusted charmingly over red cheeks.

The kiss was sweet and hesitant and initiated by Marco. Jean blushed crimson and returned it carefully. They separated slowly.

Abruptly Marco grinned,

“Y’know you’re the second person to mention Monsieur LaPlace to me today!”

  
  
  


Emile had been sure of it. He had been. Sure he knew the brown-haired sergeant that had come to the house. But he was double-checking anyway. He peered carefully around the corner.

Emile LaPlace, an Austrian citizen, stood on the American army base, at the corner of a Nissan hut, in a United States Army Corporal’s uniform. He had a small set of binoculars, rather like birders use, and was watching two people outside of the American Infirmary. The infirmary, basically just a series of large, long tents, white, with large red crosses on the roofs, was mostly deserted on the outside. Everyone was busy on the inside. A white-coated figure was walking swiftly up to the door trailed by a rather eager looking brown-haired man in uniform.

Dr Hange Zoe and Sergeant Moblit Berner.

_ Shit. His recollection was correct. Sergeant Berner knew Dr. Zoe. _

Emile backed around the corner and flattened himself against the corrugated steel. He let his head tilt back till it contacted the wall and he contemplated the bright blue sky.

This was a problem.

  
  
  


Emile came in the window at speed and had to roll on the carpet and then up onto his feet. Erwin, who had been in the kitchen, appeared in the doorway of the bedroom with a carving knife.

“Levi!”

“Erwin, we have a slight difficulty,” Emile ignored the knife and dragged the big man down to sit on the edge of the bed. “Remember my irritating Americans?”

Erwin nodded,

“Well, they know some American Sergeant who apparently knows Hange,”

Erwin blanched and clutched convulsively at the handle of the knife.

“He could blow our cover! Levi …”

“Wait, wait. Calm down. Hange would never betray us.”

“But what if he finds out what she did? What if he tells the American authorities?!” Erwin wrung his big hands, “We should kill him!”

Emile’s face went blank. He hated killing. He’d done it. Indeed he was personally responsible for many deaths, but he never enjoyed it. It always made him a little sick.

The thought of ending the life of Berner, who seemed to be a fine man and who was good friends with the nice American boys made him want to vomit.

And then there was Hange.

Berner didn't just  _ know _ Hange, he was clearly  _ in love _ with Hange. Emile’d watched them outside the infirmary, Hange hurrying somewhere, Berner tagging attentively behind, a look that can only be described as adoration on his face. Emile, who saw very little love in his line of work, balked at robbing Hange of this nice man.

“No … no …” Emile said slowly, “I’m pretty sure he knew me when he was at the house. That means he’s already spilled to the others.”

“If we kill him …”

“It will look suspicious. No, I say we act natural. Berner’s never seen me do anything untoward. The other brats probably didn’t believe him anyway.” Emile lit a cigarette. “And I have a plan for one of them.”


	4. Emile

Emile was aware of Eren’s crush on him. It was hard to miss. Truth be told he found the bright green-eyed American very attractive.

That didn’t mean he would have ever acted on that attraction. Too dangerous. Too unprofessional.

But now he was sure that the Americans were sniffing around where they had no business

Emile might have to play a dangerous game. Just so long as he didn’t have to kill the young man with the chestnut-colored hair. He didn’t think he’d be capable of that.

Still, the boy asking questions made him a target. Emile had to come up with a plan. There were plenty of people in London who would have no problem killing the cheerful American.

And Emile couldn’t have that.

Eren came upon Emile in the courtyard right at dusk. Swallows swooped and dove over their heads after the mosquitoes attracted to their warm blood.

Eren was clearly out there for the purpose of mooning over Emile. He stood awkwardly, scuffling his feet in the dirt and clearing his throat. Emile finally took pity on him and decided to trot out his plan. No time like the present.

He eyed the younger man. 

“Your comrade,” He said, "Jean, is very attractive. Are you and the private together?'

"Together?” Eren squeaked, startled, “I'm not that kind of guy." He laughed nervously.

"No? My mistake,” Emile ground out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe and stepped closer, "Because you are very handsome as well,"

Eren--who  _ was _ that kind of guy--stared hard at the smaller man who returned his gaze coolly.

Eren realized that he was sweating.

The minutes spun out. Emile stared and Eren fidgeted. Finally, Eren got hold of himself enough to speak.

"When you … uh … when you ask ..."

Emile raised his eyebrows and waited politely.

Eren coughed and awkwardly ran his fingers through his hair.

"When you asked if Jean and I ... were ..."

"Yes?" Emile said, "I asked if you and Jean were a couple,"

Eren blushed at that and studied the bricks of the courtyard. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"You called us attractive. Did you ... did you want to ... ?" Eren was almost stuttering.

"Fuck?"

Eren’s mouth dropped open. 

Emile lit another one of his strange cigarettes and took a deep drag, looking over the rooftops at the sky. Two geese were flying over, headed, unbeknownst to them, for the war zone.

"Yes," Emile said, "I'd like to fuck you, Eren ... I'd bet you make the most delicious sounds. I want to hear you scream my name and beg me to come in you."

Emile delicately picked a bit of tobacco off of his tongue. "Was that the answer you were looking for?"

Eren was stood, brick red, trembling, with his mouth hanging open, well on his way to an erection. He stroked the front of his tan army-issue trousers with a distracted hand.

Emile's demeanor had changed through the course of the conversation. Before he looked stunningly attractive. Now he looked stunningly attractive and  _ hungry _ .

His eyes were narrowed and had taken on the color of Toledo steel. His small, muscular body was tense. When he moved it was like a shark, powerful and sinuous. He stepped close to Eren.

Eren stayed carefully still. With a disgruntled noise, Emile slapped Eren's hand away from his hard-on and stroked the length of it through the fabric.

Then he kissed the young man.

It wasn't quick or chaste, it was deep and sensuous. Eren moaned into Emile's mouth and gripped his arm desperately. The smaller man tasted of strange tobacco and strong tea, late nights and mysteries. Eren hoped it would never end.

Emile broke off when the back door opened. He casually took another drag off his cigarette and gently peeled Eren's fingers off of his arm.

They stood frozen for a moment until Mrs. Stafford leaned out the kitchen door, 

“Emile! I can’t get the Aga lit, again. Can you come?”

Emile stubbed out his cigarette on the brick wall.

"If you have any other questions you know where to find me,"

He walked languidly up the kitchen steps.

  
  


The next morning Emile was stepping out onto the stoop to retrieve the milk when he saw the man--by the sheerest of luck--just seconds before the man saw him. It was the shabby man in the cloth cap that he'd spotted outside of Erwin's building. 

_ What was he doing all the way over here? _

He was dressed similarly as before, cheap worn cloth jacket, cap, shoes down in the soles. He carried a package and stood on the stoop across the street and a few doors down from Mrs. Stafford's. Levi ducked back inside and grabbed Mrs. S's watering can and made an elaborate pretense of watering the cabbage plants in pots on Mrs. Stafford's tiny porch. The man kept an eye on Emile. Emile studiously ignored him.

When the door was opened to the man, a conversation ensued.

"Ah, hallo! (garbled) ...met John in th' Golden Anchor (garbled) ... arsked me to give this t' you."

The widow who lived in the house was too soft-spoken for Emile to hear her but Emile knew this old trick. To get a better look at a place you wrapped a bit of something up--tea, or biscuits, or chocolates--and pretended to deliver them a few doors down. You always gave a very common name. While the person at the house probably acknowledged that they knew a ‘John’ or a ‘Jim’ or a ‘George’, you scoped out the mark's place.

Emile was sure of it. This man was a spy, or worse; an assassin. There was no way he had just  _ happened _ to be both at Erwin's place and here.

He had to be looking for Emile. Emile recalled their encounter outside Erwin’s building. The man had brushed past him, thinking him just a passerby, so how had he known to follow him to Rose Street?

The other man, the one in the black coat, must have been watching Erwin’s place. The two must be working together. Emile must be very careful, now.

Just as the man in the cloth cap was convincing the widow to accept the package, Emile stepped back into the house. He watched from behind the curtain as the man slowly studied the surrounding houses then walked away.

There was only one thing good about this: the man apparently didn't remember his brushing past Emile. He didn’t know Emile by sight. 

  
  


It was no good.

When it came to Hange, Moblit never took anything at face value. He’d learned that from her. Now that he had a suspicion that might impact her, he was dead set on finding an answer.

He’d been all through the hospital tents. He’d waved hello and spoken to all of his ill division mates and superiors then he finally spotted her.

Hange was her normal, slightly disheveled self and Moblit found it charming.

“Influenza B!” Hange crowed triumphantly. She pushed a strand of ruddy brown hair out of her eyes and hitched her clipboard higher.

“Influenza B?” Moblit repeated politely, snagging a few papers and a manilla folder the woman had pinned to her side under one arm.

“Oh! Thank you! Yes! Influenza B. It’s what your division has! Along with some secondary pneumonia. I’d love to take a sample of your sputum to analyze …”

Moblit, long used to Hange’s obsession with bodily fluids, nodded.

Hange shoved her glasses up her nose.

“How many have we lost?” Moblit asked quietly.

Hange grew still. “Six,” 

Moblit nodded sadly and Hange reached out to stroke his arm.

Abruptly her hand snapped back. “Well, uh, I have a … meeting.”

Moblit frowned. “When can I see you again?”

“Tonight? Yes, tonight is good! At mess?”

Moblit smiled beautifully,

“It’s a date,”

As Hange hurried away, Moblit’s smile disappeared. He glanced around then followed after her. After a few twists and turns, she disappeared behind a supply building. Around the corner, he heard her voice. He sidled up to the edge of the structure and peered around. It was Hange alright, and Pixis, the base commander.

Nothing suspicious about that.

Moblit tried to hear what they were saying but they were speaking very low. Pixis handed Hange a small black canister then Hange nodded and they separated. Moblit watched Hange walk in the direction of the hospital tents.

The sergeant was about to give up on this idea, this wild goose chase, that Hange was doing something untoward when, just as he was turning away, Hange did something strange.

The entire American base was surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. The buildings and tents were in the center with a good distance from the fence for ease of visibility by the guards. There was no reason to approach the fence except at the gates but Hange was doing just that.

Moblit ducked around a Quonset hut and watched as she got to the fence then began walking along it. Abruptly a small figure detached itself from the shadow of a large pole on the other side of the fence and met her. They appeared to speak very briefly, then Hange pushed something through the wire to the person. They then parted quickly. 

The figure on the other side of the fence was a man. 

That man was Emile LaPlace.

  
  


Eren was well and truly lost. He had long since begun to regret trying to follow Emile on his own, but he was determined to find out where the man went during the day. He came to the awkward junction of three streets (none of them came into the tiny square at the same angle) and looked desperately down each one.

God, he was so lost. Fuck! He would be late for supper. Mrs. S. would be so disappointed!

He chose a street at random, perhaps the largest of the three tiny thoroughfares, and wandered down it.

Abruptly he could have sworn he saw a familiar figure. The person in question strolled smoothly across the tiny street and between two buildings. 

_ Emile?  _ Eren hurried after the figure.

By the time he got down to the end of the alley and out into another narrow street, the person who might have been Emile was ducking down another alley.

“What the fuck?”

Eren kept doggedly on. Another turn, another alley, this one nicer and longer. It let out onto a slightly better-looking neighborhood. Eren jerked to a halt.

It  _ was _ Emile. And he was close--just yards away--speaking with an absurdly handsome blond man. Eren’s lips compressed into a thin line. The blonde man, so tall and muscular, bent into Emile’s space intimately and Eren felt his hands curl into fists. 

The two men spoke quietly despite the street being deserted. Eren sank back around the corner into the alleyway.

The young man strained his ears to catch a bit of what they were saying but it was too soft. Eren hitched one eye past the corner. Emile was handing the big man something - a small cylinder of sorts. Eren frowned.  _ Why did it look familiar? _

Eren ducked back as Emile took a quick look around.

When he eased back out Emile was standing with his hand on the man’s chest, over his heart. As Eren watched, the handsome blonde man bent and Emile went up on his tiptoes to meet him in a deep kiss. When they parted they spoke quietly, the tone entirely different now, softer.

Eren drew back into the alley. He was shocked at the kiss but more so at the words.

They were speaking in German.

Eventually they moved off, walking together so close that their arms touched and went inside a tall brick apartment building. Eren followed.

On the third floor, at the end of the hall, in front of a door, Levi and the blond man fell into each other’s arms, kissing deeply. They fumbled the door open, went through, then it closed with a slam. Eren waited a long while, perhaps ten minutes, then crept up to the door.

First he tried to see through the keyhole but there was nothing to see but what appeared to be a sofa covered in chintz. Next Eren pressed his ear to the door. To his shock, the door swung inward. In their haste they must have not pushed hard enough to set the latch. Eren froze, listening, ready to bolt like a rabbit.

He couldn’t hear any voices but there was a muted banging noise that Eren took for a shutter loose in the wind. He paused. No. No. Too even, too rhythmic.

Abruptly Eren recognized it for what it was: the headboard of a bed hitting the wall. Somebody was fucking somebody. Eren crept forward, drawn despite himself, his cheeks pink, into the apartment.

Off the sitting room, the door to the bedroom was open. The sound came from there.

Eren edged along the wall. He discovered that he didn't have to get close to the door, he just had to position himself across the room where he had a view of the bed.

He arrived at the spot and his jaw fell open and his cock twitched.

It was Emile. Emile and the big blond man.

Eren had seen them kiss in the street. He knew they were in some sort of relationship. He wasn’t prepared for the raw sexuality--or his first glimpse of two men together. 

The blonde man was on his back, completely naked. Emile was positioned in between his lifted legs, upright, sitting back on his heels, facing the man, one strong arm around each thigh. He was thrusting deeply into the man, fucking him at a punishing pace. The blonde cried out at each forward stroke, back arching, eyes screwed shut, fisting the sheets so hard his knuckles were white. Emile, sweat dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose, drove himself into the man, murmuring all the while in German.

The blonde man’s cries were becoming more urgent, his dick, a massive thing, bumped his own belly, turgid with arousal.

Emile was obviously also close, face flushed red, bowing his head and rutting into the blond. Finally, his hand shot out, quick, and grasped the big man’s cock.

The effect was almost immediate. Three or four quick jerks and the other man came hard, sending spurts of cum all over his own chest. Emile followed closely, jerking and grunting and spilling inside the big man.

Eren, dazed, his trousers painfully tight over his crotch, eased along the wall out of the apartment and down the stairs. The big blonde man’s final cries, as he came, rang in Eren’s head:

“Levi! Levi!  _ Levi! _ ”

Emile sat in the open window and smoked while Erwin drew a bath and chattered contentedly. He watched with narrowed eyes as Eren Yeager scurried down the street, away from the building.

What he  _ didn’t _ see was the man in the cloth cap following Eren

  
  


Eren walked as quickly as he could, trying to find his way back to Mrs. Stafford’s house. He tried to be reasonable. Perhaps Emile simply had a German lover. Or his lover spoke German. That would be the simple explanation. But something niggled at him. The man had looked like a soldier and Emile had said that he never spoke German here and ...

Suddenly Eren’s brain supplied a word.

_ Film. _

That was a film canister that Emile had handed the tall man.

Why would Emile be handing over a film canister to a German? Why would he be having sex with a German?

For a long moment, Eren just stood in the street with his mouth open, fighting his own brain, the creeping idea.

_ Was Emile handing over war secrets to the enemy? Was Emile fucking the enemy?! _


	5. "It's not a contest"

Moblit had followed Hange to the local market. He was consumed with suspicion and was desperate to find out the association between Hange and _ that Frenchman _ .

It was a Saturday and, the war be damned, there were locals with everything from produce to fish to live chickens for the supper table. There was a man selling roasted chestnuts and another selling oysters. Every local pub had its doors standing open to welcome in any weary shoppers.

Abruptly Emile was there in the mix. Moblit watched him anxiously. He appeared to be simply shopping. He had a string bag and was perusing the fish. As the fish hawker wrapped Emile’s choice in brown paper, Hange passed right by. A look, a brief look, passed between them and then Hange was walking on.

Moblit frowned. They had made eye contact: why hadn’t they spoken? Moblit could have sworn he saw the small man shake his head, once, firmly. Had he warned Hange off? Could they know he was watching?

The fear, the niggling fear that he'd had since he first saw Hange handing Emile something through the fence, resurfaced.

_ Were they purposely 'ignoring' each other? Why? _

Moblit swallowed hard.  _ Because they had something to hide, maybe? _

As the two drifted apart and further into each side of the crowd, a tall blond man appeared. He was wearing a military-looking grey coat and had freshly shined shoes and was clearly following Hange as well. The blond man hesitated when he saw Emile. 

The strange dance Emile and Hange had done was repeated by the blond man. He edged closer and closer to Emile--this time stopped to look at a plump duck carcass that hung from a stall--except he spoke to him. 

_ What the hell? What was this? _

Moblit came as close as he dared but could hear nothing. The two of them stood almost as close as lovers, murmuring. They seemed to be having a disagreement and Moblit was certain he heard Hange’s name. Moblit edged closer, pretending to peruse the cages of live chickens.

Perfect. Close enough to hear … but no? He was stunned to discover that they were speaking in German.

Abruptly Emile looked over at Moblit and jerked in surprise. 

_ “Geh einfach,”  _ he snapped to the blond man.

The blond man shot a glance over his shoulder and immediately moved away.

Frowning, Moblit also moved off, feigning ignorance. When he glanced back, Emile was staring at him with those silvery grey eyes. Moblit snagged a passing Bobby and whispered to him. The man straightened and glowered at Emile. He strode toward him.

"Papers. Papers please,"

Emile, with a pointed glare at Sgt. Berner, produced his papers. The copper studied them then looked at the small man suspiciously.

"Says 'ere you're Austrian,"

"Yes," Levi said pleasantly.

"What kind of name is Emily Lah Place?"

"French." Emile offered the man one of his french cigarettes and the man scowled at it.

"You speak French?"

"Oui,"

"You were talking in Krout a minnit ago, werncha, then?"

"Yes, I'm fluent in German."

"Dunno about floont ..."

"Most Austrians speak German. We're adjacent after all,"

If 'fluent' gave the man trouble 'adjacent' threw him entirely. He shoved Emile's papers back at him.

“You keep that Jerry stuff to yourself, you hear? This is England!”

Emile nodded solemnly.

By the time Emile got through coolly replacing his papers, he looked around but Hange, Erwin--and Moblit Berner--were gone.

  
  


Moblit followed the blond man. He was determined to find out the connection between him and Hange and that damned Frenchman, Emile LaPlace. The blond man moved with studied casualness through the market crowd. Abruptly a short man in a worn black coat bumped into him. The man apologized then extended an unlit cigarette in the blond man’s direction.

“Oi, mate, got a light?"

The blond man paused, smiling, and lit the Englishman's cigarette. The man seemed to look intently at him but the blond didn't notice. The blond man left the marketplace: Moblit followed behind.

Erwin, the ‘blond man’ to Moblit, didn’t hurry but surely didn’t stroll. Moblit had to jog several times to catch up with him. Eventually, they wound up in Cheapside and outside a plain three-story brick apartment building. It appeared to be Erwin's residence; he stood on the stoop and got his mail from a round, older lady whom Moblit took to be the landlady. They chattered pleasantly for a moment.

Moblit stood pressed against the wall in an alleyway on the same side of the road as Erwin’s building. Indeed, he was in the alley between Erwin’s building and the one next to it. He could hear Erwin and the landlady conversing about the weather. He could also see, and one thing in his sight was the alley across the street and there was a man there acting oddly.

_ Why did he look familiar? _ With a start, Moblit recognized him as the man in the faded black coat at the market. The one who had bumped into Erwin and asked for a light.  _ What was he doing here? And how had he gotten here so quickly? _

Moblit narrowed his eyes and began watching the man in the black coat rather than Erwin. There was something going on here.

The man in the black coat made no haste. He smoked and he watched erwin and Moblit watched him. Eventually the man tossed the butt of his cigarette aside and carefully extracted the gun from his coat and took aim methodically. Moblit’s breath quickened.

_ What the hell? _

Erwin was still on the top step and only the barrel of the gun and one eye could be seen of the Englishman around the corner. Moblit could see him perfectly. He was targeting Erwin. 

Moblit had no idea what to do.  _ Should he draw his own sidearm? Why would an Englishman be trying to kill the blond (German?) man? What should he do? _

The man in the faded black coat flipped off the safety.

Erwin laughed, presumably at something his landlady had said, and closed the front door. He turned to go.

Before Moblit could decide what to do and without warning, a black-gloved hand slid over the shooter's mouth and a thin blade--no wider than a half an inch--slid between his ribs, through a lung, and into his heart.

_ "Got im Himmel ... was ... ?" _ was the man’s last thought.

Around the corner, Erwin bounced down the steps of the boarding house and, turning the opposite way, walked on, whistling.

Moblit couldn’t breathe. He just stared as Emile La Place let the man in the black coat's body down onto the ground. There was almost no blood. Emile glanced around and, hooking both hands under the corpse’s arms, dragged it into a side alley.

Moblit, chalk white, trembled against the alley wall at his back.  _ What had he just seen? _

  
  


Later that evening, in Erwin’s apartment, Levi was pacing the floor.

“Levi …”

“Ah!  _ ‘Emile’!” _

“Emile, I was worried …”

“So you took it upon yourself to follow my contact?”

“I thought maybe--”

“You weren’t thinking at all!”

Erwin drew himself up to his full, impressive height, “I’m not a fool!”

“You could have jeopardized the whole mission! You could have gotten Hange killed! That man almost  _ shot _ you, Erwin!”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

Emile stared at Erwin. “ _ Gütiger Gott im Himmel!  _ Are you drunk?! Why would you ask such a thing?!” Emile sighed gustily and shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. Erwin sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I can tell, Lev-- _ Emile _ ,” Erwin said sadly, “You’ve been with someone else.”

Emile smoked jerkily without looking at him.

“If not her then who? Some Englishman?”

“You know I wouldn’t jeopardize the mission like that.”

“Then who? One of the Americans at your house?”

Levi must have flinched because Erwin went quiet. After a moment Emile looked over at the other man, sat on the bed in his overcoat, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. He looked smaller, childlike.

“Erwin … Erwin, I care very deeply for him.”

“Are you leaving me? After all we’ve been through?” Erwin finally looked up at him. “I thought you ‘cared very deeply’ for me, too.”

Emile crushed out his cigarette, knelt by the bed and took both of Erwin’s big hands in his. “Erwin I do. I truly do. I would never leave you. Can I … can I not have you both?”

There was a coarse rustle of fabric as Erwin threw his arms around Emile and Emile returned the embrace.

  
  


Later Emile and Erwin lay side by side in the narrow bed still out of breath, still sweat-slicked and smelling of sex.

“Is he very handsome … this new boy of yours?”

Emile was resisting the urge to reach for his cigarettes. Erwin didn’t like him smoking in bed. “He is very … _ pretty _ I would say. Very young.”

Erwin propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Emile. “You will be his first? Oh, go ahead and get a cigarette!”

Emile thankfully scrabbled at his trousers folded neatly on the bedside table and extracted a cigarette and his lighter. He lit up the cig and took a deep breath of smoke. He relaxed back down on the bed. Erwin smirked down at him. “You are … what is the word? ‘Addicted’?”

“Hmm.”

“So you two have not had sex? You will be his first?”

Emile nodded. “Most likely.”

“You were my first as well.” He caressed Emil’s face, pushing strands of midnight dark hair out of his grey eyes.

Emile thought suddenly and with blinding clarity of how much he loved this man. He would never say that word to him but it was true. And here he was relaxed beneath the man’s gaze, totally vulnerable. Erwin could produce a knife and kill him so quickly there would be no chance to defend himself. He blinked in the rising smoke. Now would be the perfect time. Erwin even had a reason; the aforementioned pretty American.

Erwin began to turn away, onto his side.  _ To snatch up a knife? _ No. No Emile didn’t think Erwin capable of it yet he was troubled that the other man might be hurt by Emile’s new love affair.

“Erwin. Are you OK? Are you alright with this? With Eren?”

Erwin didn’t turn back toward him but spoke to the wall. “Is that his name? Eren?”

Levi sat up suddenly and put his hand on Erwin’s shoulder. “You know it will be alright, yes? It is not a contest. I am fond of you both. I would never leave you.”

Erwin yawned. “Levi,” he said, still facing away, snuggling into his pillow. Emile didn’t correct him.

“I love you. I will always love you. If you truly care for this American boy then I will care for him too.”

The cigarette burnt down to the filter as Emile simply sat and stared at Erwin’s sleeping form, thinking.


	6. Dirty Spy

First thing the next morning, Emile was shaved and dressed and heading out on a long walk. That walk (coupled with a short bus ride) got him to the US army base. He stopped briefly in a flower shop and purchased two small bouquets of flowers. He left one of these with the guard at the front gate of the base with instructions that they were for Dr. Hange Zoe.

  
  
  


“But Mobe, surely …”

“I know what I saw! I’m tellin’ ya I saw that Frenchman kill a man!”

Marco carefully set a full mug of coffee down in front of his superior and rested a reassuring hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely.”

“God, thanks, Marco. I feel like I’m going insane.” Moblit took a distracted sip of his coffee. His hands were shaking.

Marco sat down across the desk from Moblit, his own coffee in hand. “Now what do we do about it?”

Moblit chewed on one thumbnail. “Turn them in. He’s gotta be a spy. He and that blond guy. I heard them talking in German.”

“That doesn’t mean--”

“Then he killed a guy right after!” Moblit ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. “And so quick and so clean, Marco! The guy never made a sound and there wasn’t even a spot of blood! It was like something out of a film!” 

Moblit chewed the inside of his cheek. “Why was the English guy trying to kill the German guy, I wonder?”

“Obviously because the German is a dirty spy!”

“But in broad daylight on a residential street?”

“Those spies are wily. Maybe he’d been tracking him for a while?”

Marco pursed his lips, “So let’s say Emile and this German are spies. What does it have to do with Dr. Zoe?”

Moblit ran his fingers through his hair again. “I have no idea.”

Marco got up and crossed the room to get them more coffee when

he suddenly froze and stared fixedly out of the window.

“Hey, Mobes … isn’t  _ that _ Dr. Zoe?”

Moblit scrambled up to see.

It was. It was Hange at the front gate and then hurrying towards a cafe across the street. And she was holding a bouquet of flowers.

Marco was pretty sure he could  _ hear _ Moblit’s heart breaking.

  
  


The Americans enjoyed quite a bit of notoriety in London especially from the young women of marrying age--it was not unusual at all for flowers and gifts to be left at the front gate for various people inside. The guards were used to it. Add to this the bevy of American nurses who worked at the infirmary and the guards sometimes got overwhelmed. But today seemed to be a slow day and Emile, sitting in a cafe across the road, waited less than a half an hour before Dr. Hange Zoe came hurrying across.

She sat down opposite him.

“No disguise? I knew this had to be serious if you used our emergency system.” She convulsively clutched the bouquet of flowers in her hands.

Emile laid his hand over hers reassuringly. “Those are for you no matter what.”

Hange smiled briefly but it didn’t touch her eyes. “So, what’s the skinny?”

“My contact and I might have to disappear for a while.”

“Oh, Emile, I’m sorry! Did your cover get blown?”

“Not yet, but there’s an operative after us and that puts all of you in danger.”

Emile chose not to tell Hange about the man he’d killed in the alley. There was no reason to alarm her any more than was necessary.

“I’m not afraid,” Hange said, “I only wish there was more information I could give you.”

Emile covered her hand with his. “You’ve done beautifully, you and Pixis. Your efforts may yet help us win this war,” he said warmly.

  
  
  


Marco was completely unable to stop Moblit. The man was enraged. Marco was trailing him as he stomped toward the guard hut by the gate. He all but accosted the startled man on duty there.

“Why was Dr. Zoe here? Where did those flowers come from?”

Unfortunately, the man, also a sergeant, was unimpressed after he got over his initial shock.

“I can’t reveal that, Berner. You know that. That’s Dr. Zoe’s private business. What’s it to ya anyway, chum?”

Ignoring him, Moblit turned and crossed the street, Marco on his heels. As he got close to the cafe he peered into the windows. What he saw just made him even more angry--Hange and Emile LaPlace at a table together.

“I’ll kill him!” Moblit said, hand on his sidearm.

Marco grabbed his wrist in both his hands. “Mobe! Calm down, man!”

Moblit grit his teeth. “OK, OK, what would you do?”

“Let’s just go talk to them calmly.”

“OK, OK, calmly.” He ran both hands through his hair. “Calmly”

The two men stalked into the cafe. Emile, who never sat with his back to the door, seriously considered trying to make a run for it.

Hange saw his startled face, turned, and saw Moblit and Marco. She stood and held out both hands placatingly.

“Moblit! Why the face? Marco?” Hange looked from one to another.

At their silence, she finally sat back down, “I’m so sorry,” she said to Emile.

Emile coolly lit a cigarette.

“Sgt. Berner, Corporal Bodt, was it? This is Dr. Hange Zoe.”

“You know damn well that I already know that, Frenchie,” Moblit growled.

“Moblit …” Hange said

“I’m not French,” Emile pointed out mildly.

Moblit struck the table so hard the cups rattled in their saucers and people turned to stare. “Whatever you are, you damned spy!” Moblit hissed.

Hange and Emile locked gazes.

“Moblit … ” Hange said again.

“How long have you been making time with my girl, you traitor?”

“Moblit! What in the world?” 

“He meets with you! He brought you flowers! You know he’s a spy, right?”

Hange looked around, “Moblit keep your voice down!”

Emile took a long inhale of his cig and let it out slowly, waving the smoke away from his companions. “It’s not what you think.”

“You’re not a spy?” Marco asked.

“I’m not romancing Dr. Zoe, lovely as she is.” Emile gave her a sultry smile.

Moblit gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. “Prove it!”

“I am a homosexual.”

This was a tiny bit of a lie as Emile was actually bisexual but revealing that would not be helpful in this situation.

Moblit recoiled at the information, not expecting it. Marco’s mouth dropped open.

“There, you see? Foolish man!” Hange said, exasperated, “You could have had Emile arrested with all of that ‘spy’ talk!”

“Marco, take Hange back to her office.” Moblit said grimly.

“Who are you to tell me what to do, Moblit Berner?” Hange demanded.

“Take her!”

Marco stood and put a hand on Hange’s arm. The woman frowned in agitation and shrugged him off. She adjusted her glasses and poked one long forefinger at Moblit, “We will be talking about this, later!” She warned and left with a sheepish Marco.

Emile smoked and regarded Moblit carefully.

“I’m on to you and your German buddy.” Moblit said.

“I am on your side, Sgt. Berner.”

“Bull! I saw you kill that man.”

Emile started and stared, his cigarette burning down between his fingers.  _ What man? Which man? The assassin who was after Erwin? _ Well, no matter, now.

“He was a bad man.” Emile said.

“I think  _ you _ might be a bad man!”

“I am not a German spy, Sgt. Berner.”

Moblit just glared.

“Look,” Emile crushed out his cigarette. “I promise I will explain it all to you one day. I promise. Please don’t endanger your men. Or yourself. Or Ms. Zoe. Trust me for now, yes? Hange does.”

“I  _ don’t _ believe you and I  _ don’t _ trust you. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” Moblit stood and towered over the table intimidatingly. “And that German friend of yours.”

  
  
  


It was brisk and bright outside by the time Emile returned home, mentally exhausted. He presented the second bouquet of flowers to a blushing Mrs. Stafford.

“Oh, Emile, you have a note.”

Emile regarded the cream-colored envelope with suspicion. “How was it delivered?”

“By hand. Martin’s boy--you know Martin Broward?--it was his boy, Tommy, who brought it. I tried to tip him a few pence but he said it was paid. Looked pleased as punch about it, too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford.”

Levi pinched the envelope up between thumb and forefinger and trotted up the stairs to his lofty flat.

Once there he carefully hung up his overcoat and his jacket and minutely inspected the envelope to see if it had been tampered with. It didn’t seem to have been. (The advantage of being hand-delivered by an honest English boy and having a landlady one could trust.) He tore open the envelope. He knew immediately by the beautiful looping script that it was from Erwin.

_ Meet me in our usual place tonight. _

And that was all it said. Taken alone it would be interpreted by anyone as a note from Emile’s lovesick lady friend (and in a way it was--it  _ was _ from his lover) and any way you looked at it, it didn’t reveal when or where. But Emile knew. Their  _ usual place _ to meet was a stretch of pavement by the Thames and  _ tonight _ meant 6pm sharp. Emile would have to hurry. And make excuses to Mrs. Stafford about supper.

  
  
  


Emile and Erwin walked companionably in the waning light, Emile smoking his odd cigarettes and Erwin smoking his hand-rolled ones. They kept a reasonable distance apart. Just two chaps having a smoke by the water and catching up.

After Emile shared his encounter with Moblit Berner it was Erwin’s turn. “The operative who is still alive, his name is Hans Fritz and he’s been a thorn in the side of England for months. The one you killed was Josef Schwartz. Do you remember him? From when we were in Liverpool?”

“Small, weaselly man?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s the one who killed Nile, wasn’t he? It’s good he’s dead.”

“My contacts in the Wehrmacht are still solid.” Erwin said. “I think these two just decided that we had gone rogue and are--were in Schwartz’s case--operating without authorization.”

“That’s good then.”

“So long as my contacts hold fast.”

“We’ve given them excellent intel so far, despite it being fake. They bombed that squadron of plywood fighters at Duxford, after all.” Emile chuckled at that and Erwin joined him.

“So we just need to find this fellow, Fritz, and kill him,” Emile said with a sigh.

“It seems so.”

“Well, thank you for the information,” Emile said formally, crushing out his cigarette with one small, highly polished shoe.

“I wish I could kiss you,” Erwin said suddenly

Emile stuck his hand out and Erwin took it. They shook firmly and held one another’s hand just a moment too long before disappearing in opposite directions in the growing fog.


	7. "Show me"

Emile saw the man in the brown cloth cap in the alleyway off of Rose Street, between the Victorian and Mrs. Stafford’s house, just as he had before--a moment before the man saw him. Emile was outside the side door, smoking. Eren was in the courtyard digging potatoes. The man in the cloth cap crept forward toward the corner of the wall, Eren blithely oblivious on the other side. Whether the operative was actually after Eren or not, It looked for all the world like a cat stalking a mouse.

Emile had no time to go around and get behind the assassin, to kill him quietly.  _ What should he do? Fight the man face to face in the alleyway and raise the alarm? Give up his hard-earned cover? _ One young American meant nothing in the grand scheme of the deadly game of war Emile told himself. But he just couldn’t; he just couldn’t turn away.

He crushed out his cigarette and darted right through the side door and reappeared moments later at the kitchen door which opened into the courtyard. Eren started, then blushed, chewing his lip, a tiny smile on his face. He pushed his chocolate brown mass of hair out of his eyes with one sweaty forearm.

Emile wasted no time. He crossed to the younger man and grabbed his shoulders, pressing him against the wall.

“I’ve wanted to do this again so badly,” he murmured.

That, at least, was true.

He buried his face in Eren’s neck, sucking the tan flesh, nipping over his collar bone. He tasted of salt. Eren’s cry of shock and pleasure bounced off of the bricks of the courtyard wall and Emile actually heard the assassin stop.

_ Come on, come on … what sort of operative are you? Retreat or attack. _

Emile hoped desperately that it was the former. While he could easily kill the man if he chose to attack, it would ruin his cover … and ruin his chances with the young American.

He had to be sure about the operative, though. He had to keep Eren safe.

“Em-Emile!” Eren gasped,

Emile brought one hard thigh up between the boy’s legs and ground it against the taut erection there. Eren moaned and rolled his hips, riding the older man’s thigh.

Emile realized that he was hard as well.

_ Little tease. _

Emile’s mouth wandered downward and his hands opened Eren’s shirt.

He could no longer hear the assassin, couldn’t hear him shifting, or breathing.  _ Was he gone? _ Yes, Emile could hear the sound of someone hurrying away.

The threat gone, he tried to pull away from Eren, but Emile was shamefully distracted by the boy’s body. Eren stood over half a foot taller than him so the younger man’s nipples were easily reached by Emile’s roaming mouth.

Eren was writhing and making embarrassingly loud sounds when Emile came off his nipple.

He had to stop this. The assassin was gone and would not return so long as he realized that a potential witness was with Eren. Emile didn't have any right to Eren, after all.

Eren felt differently.

He kissed inexpertly along Emile’s collar bone and grew bold enough to nip at the skin. The older man groaned with desire and mixed feelings.

“Are you sure, Eren? Sure you want this?”

Eren nodded eagerly and Emile took his hand, dragging him into the house, safe for the moment.

They paused, slightly winded, and Emile slammed the door and pressed Eren against the old wood, kissing him deeply, exploring his mouth with his tongue. Their lips met urgently. Eren's mouth was hot wet and eager and it took all of Levi's self-control not to try to plunge his hand down the boy's trousers.

Eren moaned and ground his hard-on into Emile’s sharp hip.

Emile came off of Eren's mouth and leveled a serious gaze at the young man.

No fooling around now.

This was important.

“Are you ready to do this?” Emile asked.

The young serviceman nodded eagerly.

Emile’s blue-grey eyes were piercing. “This will be the first time for you, yes?”

Eren nodded again, a bit slower this time.

Emile took the boy’s face in both hands, “Eren, I can't guarantee that I can fully control myself. The first time … the first few times can … be uncomfortable …”

Eren grabbed the other man’s hands. He smelled of warm, rich soil and sweat.

“I don’t care. I want this Emile.”

“But if I get carried away and I hurt you … I could never forgive myself.”

Eren’s grass green eyes narrowed.

“I. Want. This.”

Emile abandoned all patience, capturing the American’s mouth in a rough kiss.

Eren surrendered entirely to the kiss, letting Emile set the pace.

Secretly Eren hoped the pace would be fast.

And rough.

_ What am I getting myself into? _

He didn't really get a chance to wonder again as Emile’s talented mouth descended on his soft throat, mapping his tanned skin, sucking, nipping. The older man took a second to snag the small cruet of olive oil off of the counter then turned impatiently back to Eren.

Their mouths met again, fiercely, sloppily and Emile grabbed Eren's hips, pushing. The young man stumbled and backpedaled out of the kitchen and into the hall where he shuffled backward and ass-first into the hall table. The table clunked against the wall and Mrs. Stafford's mother's Limoges vase tottered drunkenly. Both men reached for it, Emile just catching it by the neck as it fell.

They both let out a relieved breath.

Their gazes met and Eren grinned. Emile smiled a thin smile and tossed the vase gently onto the sofa, leaning forward to kiss under Eren’s ear. Eren made a needy noise and laid back, his butt on the table and his shoulders leaned against the wall. Emile stepped between his legs, deft fingers undoing Eren's belt and fly. Eren thought Emile would just pull his pants down but he jerked them off entirely and fell back on the younger man's neck kissing and sucking. if anyone had come through the front door at that moment they'd have an excellent view of Eren's ass and his straining, erect cock.

Emile backed off suddenly, leaving the younger man perched on the edge of the table, lewdly naked and splayed for anyone to see.

"Now show me, Eren" Emile purred, stroking himself through his trousers.

"Wha... what?"

"Show me what you like, what you do ..." Emile’s eyes fell to half-lidded, "when ... you pleasure yourself."

Eren's blushed flushed him red up to his ear tips. "What? You want me to ..." Just the thought of actually touching his dick in front of this gorgeous man made Eren's muscles twitch and his erection bump his belly.

Emile was biting his lip now--a gesture that made Eren wild with want--and, gripping his own balls through his trousers, massaged gently. "Show me." he insisted.

Eren slowly fisted his cock, feeling as if his face would burst into flame with embarrassment but the moment he did Emile moaned quietly, huskily, and Eren's cock twitched in his hand.

"Yes. Do it like you like it. Tell me what pleases you, Eren. Show me."

Eren felt like he would come right that second. "Oh, god, Emile ... "

The older man had established a lazy rhythm, stroking his crotch front.

Eren was mesmerized at the movement and impressed with the sizable bulge under the man's fingertips. He began a tentative stroke of his own member.

"I like ... I mean ... " He glanced up to Emile's eyes which were flickering between his face and his cock. "I like to think of you ..."

Emile's eyebrows arched. "Yes? What do you imagine me doing?"

"You know ... doing … stuff … “

"Fucking, Eren. Say 'fucking' for god’s sake,  _ putain _ ."

Eren took a deep breath and let it out slowly, focussing on Emile's face, focusing on his eyes which were blown so wide with lust that they seemed black. "Fu ... fucking me," he said, his hand quickening on his cock.

Emile blinked his eyes slowly and stared. "Do you want me to fuck you now?"

Eren nodded eagerly.

"Right now? Right there on the hall table?"

"Yes," Eren moaned, "Yes!"

Emile inched forward, slowly, like a predator. "Here where anyone could see you with my cock buried in your sweet ass?"

"Oh, Emile!  _ Please! _ "

Emile easily hauled up both of Eren’s legs, hooking his left arm under Eren’s right leg. Effortlessly he took Eren’s left ankle and put it on his right shoulder. Eren was now splayed and folded at the perfect angle.

Emile collected what precum he could from both their cocks and drizzled olive oil into the same hand. “I’m going to put this oil on you and in you to make everything easier.”

Eren nodded, watching, fascinated.

When Emile’s two slender fingers circled Eren’s ass the young man moaned.

“That’s it,” Emile purred, “Loosen up, let Emile in.” He pressed down on the sensitive ring, stretching it slightly and Eren gasped. Emile paused. “Did that hurt?”

“No … no, It just felt weird. Keep going.”

Emile did it again, stretching Eren first then slowly and gently, he slid both fingers in to the knuckle.

Eren made a sound between a yelp and a moan and Emile carefully fingered him, spreading the lube.

“That … that feels so good!” Eren said huskily.

“Just wait,” Emile murmured, smiling.

Eren was so relaxed and aroused that when Emile finally pushed the swollen head of his cock in there was only a brief burn. Still, Eren tensed.

"Relax," Emile whispered into his ear, easing forward, pushing in another inch.

The feeling of Emile's thick cock passing through the sensitive ring of his anus and the sensation--delicious and new--of being filled was enough to have Eren gasping.

Emile froze, "Too much?"

Eren gave a needy whine and squeezed experimentally around Emile's cock. "Not enough,"

Emile grunted at the tight grip and smiled faintly, "Let's give you more then, shall we?"

Eren nodded eagerly and Emile slowly and smoothly slid half his length in pausing to kiss the younger man. Eren returned the kiss eagerly, squirming, trying to impale himself on more of Emile's dick. "Emile! Emile, please."

They proceeded like that; lips spit-slicked, tongues caressing and Emile thrusting now, shallowly, into Eren’s tight heat, giving him a little bit more and a little bit more of what he craved.

Emile was having difficulties with his self-control. Eren was a writhing mess, lips red and kiss swollen, hair wild, greedy ass sucking Emile in more with every slow thrust.

"Faster, Emile, please!" Eren said breathlessly.

The smaller man thrust firmly but gently and buried himself balls deep, then stilled. Eren thrashed like a fish on a hook.

"Ah! Emile! Don't tease!"

"What do you want, Eren?" Emile purred.

“I want you! I want you, Emile! All of you!”

Levi withdrew till just the head of his cock was caught in Eren’s hole. “Very well then,” He thrust forward purposefully and quickly and while Eren gasped at the sensation he started up a vigorous rhythm that had the hall table knocking the wall. Emile closed his eyes hoping that the table didn't knock a chunk of plaster out of the wall. He’d have to make something up then. He couldn’t very well tell Mrs. Stafford that he’d fucked one of her American servicemen on the cherrywood hall table that had been her mum’s. Emile smiled a little at the juxtaposition of that.

Eren was chanting his name now and Emile was getting close. With the precome and olive oil Eren’s ass was drooling onto the floor and making the most disgusting, delicious sounds. Emile quickened his pace.

“Oh god, oh, Emile, oh … I’m close, I’m gonna …” Eren was babbling, consumed with bliss.

He hissed in pleasure when Emile grabbed his cock and gave it a few smooth strokes. “Yes, Eren, let us come together, let me fill you up ….”

One last hard thrust and Emile groaned and came, shuddering.

“Emile … I …” and Eren came hard, splattering his own chest with white and squeezing Emile’s dick like a vice, milking the last few drops of cum.

Later they lay tangled on the narrow couch, cum and oil cleaned up, Mrs. Stafford’s Limoges vase back in its place, Eren’s head on Emile’s chest. Emile stroked Eren’s chestnut-colored hair, ending up planting soft kisses on the top of his head.

“How did you know to be so careful with me? So gentle?”

Emile shrugged underneath Eren and was silent for so long Eren wondered if he was going to answer at all.

“My first experiences were … not so gentle ... so I am very careful.” Emile played with a stand of Eren’s hair. 

“Emile … what happened?”

Again the offhand shrug. “I was … forced. A few times.”

Eren raised his head to stare at Emile. “I’m so sorry, Emile”

Emile dragged Eren’s tousled head back down to his chest. “Don’t be. It’s in the past. I was just a skinny little Jewish kid in the ghetto. Fair game to Nazi soldiers.”

“But your mother is German!”

“My mother was a German  _ Jew _ .”

Eren went quiet, tears prickling behind his eyelids at Emile having to suffer such violence. But the Nazis ...

Eren hated himself for the question he was about to ask.

“Emile …”

“Hm?”

“The blond-haired man …”

Eren felt Emile’s body stiffen under him. After a moment he felt him relax as if under a great exertion of will.

“Erwin,” Emile murmured into the boy’s hair.

“Erwin. Do you ... care for him?”

A pause, then, “I do,”

“More than me?”

Emile huffed out a sigh.  _ Not again.  _ Oh well, he was, after all, obligated to explain.

“Eren, I care for you both. It’s not a competition.”

The younger man remained silent for a bit. So long that Emile was worried that he would simply up and leave.

Eren squirmed against his chest.

“Emile …?”

“Hm?”

“Is Erwin a spy? A German spy?”

Eren lifted himself up, enough to stare into Emile’s face.

There was a long, long, cautious, silence.

“In a manner of speaking.” Emile finally admitted, “He was, formerly, a spy.”

“And you?”

“Me?”

“What are you? You’re not a writer. I saw you. You gave him a film canister. And that sound, from your room, it’s not a typewriter! It doesn’t  _ sound _ like a typewriter!”

Emile reached to the bedside table and picked up his packet of cigarettes and his lighter. Eren waited impatiently while Emile lit up.

Eventually, Emile sighed out a long stream of smoke and cut his eyes to Eren.

“What you heard is not a typewriter. It is a telegraph machine.”

“A … telegraph?”

“Erwin and I … we are double agents. The Nazis still think Erwin is a Nazi spy and they think that I am a French traitor giving him information.” Emile picked at a bit of tobacco on his lower lip. “We are both feeding false information--provided by Hange Zoe and Commander Pixis--to the Wehrmacht.”

Eren sat up on the sofa and turned to face Emile. His normally tan skin was pale. After a long moment of silence, he spoke. It was just a whisper.

“Emile. What you just told me could jeopardize you. Your life. Erwin’s life.”

Emile ground the butt of his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“This is how much I care for you, Eren.”


	8. Mein Freund

Eren was doing something he shouldn’t. Emile had warned him not to leave the house alone but Mr. Tees of the Black Dog had killed a pig and had promised Mrs. S. some sausages. Emile was out. Eren had volunteered to retrieve them. It was just around the corner. What could that quick a trip hurt?

Eren was halfway back to Rose Street and deep in thought, packet of sausages in hand. His life would never be the same. He had information that could kill two other men and he was in love with one of them. Yes, in love. He could say ‘ _ in love’ _ even if only to himself.  __ He worried his lip with his teeth as he walked. Emile and this Erwin fellow.  _ Did Emile love him? Could he love Eren, too? What was this German like?  _ He must be a fine man if he had Emile’s love. He must be a good, a moral person, if he was betraying the Nazis to side with the Allies. Eren frowned and sighed.  _ How would he ever know? _

He got his answer as he rounded the corner onto Rose street.

Eren had no time to cry out or struggle as he was literally snatched back through a doorway and off the street. He found himself wedged into the foyer of a defunct haberdashery with the tall, blond, German man he had just been thinking about. The other man reached out and gently, almost silently, turned the lock on the door.

“What?! Why did you … ?!”

"Shh, be still," the blond man said, craning his neck to peer out of the plateglass in the door. He was watching a man in a cloth cap and a brown coat who seemed bewildered, like he was looking for something. It finally dawned on Eren. He had been being followed. The German man--Erwin--had possibly saved his life.

“Did Le-- _ Emile _ not tell you to stay put? You are in danger!” Erwin scolded, “It’s a good thing he asked me to keep an eye on you!”

They couldn’t move, they couldn’t even breathe properly, the man in the cloth cap was literally a few feet away, searching for Eren. They couldn’t be seen--the windows were papered over--but they had to be patient and wait. The door rattled as the man in the cloth cap tried it.

Eren was suddenly scared.  _ Why was someone following him? Was it because of Emile and this Erwin fellow? What had he gotten himself into?  _ He shifted nervously and was embarrassed, pressed as he was against the other man.

They were intimately close, wedged into the foyer such as they were. It did give Eren the opportunity to study the man at close range; this towering golden god who was his lover's lover.

Eren's gaze skated over the sharp jawline, thick neck, and powerful shoulders. After a moment Erwin noticed him looking.

“Why do you stare, American?"

Eren's cheeks heated up and he glanced down, an action that only gave him an unobstructed view of the front of the man's trousers. Eren blushed harder and shifted uncomfortably--his body was betraying him--his own trousers were now a bit too tight.

The man squeezed even closer, causing Eren to have to look up at him. He was several inches taller than Eren's 5'10" and the younger man realized that there had to be almost a foot height difference between Erwin and Emile. The German man reached up to touch Eren's chin.

"So you are the little boy," he said, turning his face this way and that. “Levi’s little boy.”

"Hey!" snapped Eren.

"You are just a child," the big man said, not unkindly. "A very pretty child but a child nonetheless"

"I'm twenty!"

“I beg your pardon. Levi told me that, but you look younger.”

The big man suddenly looked sad and Eren’s heart ached without his permission. It ached because he didn’t mind sharing Emile but he wanted to guarantee a place in Emile's heart, and it ached because he imagined Erwin’s situation. A stranger in a strange land, on a dangerous mission, in love with Emile … no ‘Levi,’ Eren must learn to call him ‘Levi’.

Erwin’s position must be hard. Something occurred to Eren out of the blue.

"Are you jealous? Of ... of me?"

“It seems we are jealous of each other.” Erwin murmured.

Erwin studied him for a long while. Eventually, Erwin took out a small tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette. He offered the first one to Eren who shook his head.

“You seem to want to ask me something,” Erwin observed, awkwardly lighting his cigarette in the small space. He craned his neck again to look for the assassin. The man in the cloth cap was moving down the street.

“Would you ever betray Emile … I mean, Levi?” Eren suddenly blurted.

Erwin eyed him coolly. “I would die before I ever betrayed Levi.”

“Do you … love him?”

“More than anything.”

“Well, I love him too!”

Erwin cocked his head and took a drag off of his cigarette. The smoke drifting up through his golden lashes, made him squint.

"I am beginning to see why he is attracted to you," he said softly, "You are very very pretty and clearly very very smart."

Abruptly the taller man bent slightly and pressed his lips to Eren's. It was over as quickly as it began, not forced, just a quick, chaste kiss. Eren's hand stole up to his lips. 

“Why … why did you do that?”

Erwin took a quick, delicate drag off of his cigarette. “Levi enjoys doing it, I presume. I wanted to see what it was like. I meant no disrespect. You taste very sweet.”

Eren blushed fiercely. Was this man just yanking his chain? He struggled with himself, not wanting to admit how much he had enjoyed it.

Erwin looked out of the window again and dropped his cigarette onto the floor, crushing it out. 

“Come, we will go to my apartment for a short while until Levi returns. You will be safe there.” Erwin peered out the window again, making sure that the assassin was gone and unlocked the door.

A few moments later they slipped from their hiding place and down the street, heading for Erwin’s apartment.

  
  
  


Erwin shut the door behind Eren and set the three locks that were bolted to it. The apartment looked much as Eren remembered, but not wanting Erwin to be embarrassed that Eren had seen him _ in flagrante delicto,  _ pretended to look around. The sitting room was lovely in rose-and-green chintz with maple furniture, the kitchen was tiny but homey and the single bedroom--also in maple--was roomy enough with a double bed. Due to the decor, it would appear that a woman lived here. Eren wondered if that was intentional. He decided to ask.

Erwin chuckled, "This is how it was decorated when I let it. Apparently, a lovely woman lived here before me. I supposed it wouldn't hurt to have people think that I had a girl or girls. People like us are frowned on, you know. Is it different in America?" Erwin's voice sounded almost hopeful.

Eren frowned and recalled a disheveled Jean Kirstein, bloody and enraged at being called a homosexual and then later, beaten to within an inch of his life, because someone had found out about him and Marco.

"No. No. It's just the same there. Stupid people."

Erwin stripped off his dress shirt and, clad only in his trousers and his undershirt, put on an apron.

"You should take a nap. I will cook us something after I send a note to Levi."

Eren stared at the big, soft-looking bed in the bedroom. He was pretty exhausted. Almost being kidnapped or killed by a Nazi spy will take it out of you.

Erwin left it up to him and crossed to the door. He left the door open as he went across the hall and lightly tapped on the door there. A harried-looking woman surrounded by a gaggle of kids answered and was immediately and obviously affected by Erwin's wide shoulders, emphasized by the narrow straps of his undershirt, and his broad chest with its sprinkling of pale blond chest hair peeking out. She actually simpered.

Quickly, a child of appropriate age was secured and Erwin penned a quick note which he sealed in an envelope. He gave the boy the note, the package of sausages from Mr. Tees, and a coin.

"This coin is for you." 

He gave him another, "And this is for your mother. Take care they don't go astray or ..." his voice dropped, "I'll come for you."

The wide-eyed boy nodded solemnly and, taking the note, hurried away.

Erwin relocked the door. "What did you decide about the nap?"

Eren yawned inadvertently just then.

"I'll take that as a yes." Erwin laughed "Come."

Moment's later Eren was snuggled in the bed that was, indeed quite soft. It also smelled of Erwin ... and Emile. Eren wallowed against the pillow, inhaling the scents. He stopped abruptly as his dick took an interest. He couldn't exactly jerk off in Emile's lover's bed with Emile's lover in the next room.

Eren took his mind off his pecker by listening to Erwin moving around in the kitchen. There was the soft clang of pans and after a while equally soft singing in a wavering baritone. Eren smiled and dozed off.

On Rose Street, the boy, the note, and the sausages arrived before Emile did, thank goodness. Emile was beside himself as it was until he got the note open.

_ Boy with me. Our friend was seeking him. He is safe at my home. _

Emile was relieved. Eren being safe with Erwin would allow him a few more reconnaissance runs. He had to find that operative.

  
  
  


When Eren awoke it was dusk and quiet and Erwin was in the room. He was standing at the washbasin clad only in his loose pinstriped cotton boxers. He was washing the day's dust and sweat off of his skin with a washcloth. Eren watched the cloth slide over Erwin's muscular form in the dim slice of light from the sitting room; his shoulders, his waist, his arms, his broad chest with its sparse mat of almost white-blond hair. It was easy to see why Emile was attracted to Erwin; he was a beautiful man. He scrubbed his underarms thoroughly and then caught sight of Eren in the mirror that hung on the wall over the washbasin.

"Shall I heat you some water as well?"

Eren felt almost liquid. The bed was so comfortable and warm and he felt so safe there with Erwin as if nothing could touch him, as if he could be himself--his real self--with this man.

Erwin smiled at him and took the basin away to dump it. He returned several minutes later with the same basin only with fresh clean, soapy water.

"I've gotten you a clean cloth," he said. Eren sat up on the edge of the bed. For a moment he hesitated to get undressed but eventually, he did, stripping to his underpants (US military issue, off-white cotton boxers that were a bit too big for his narrow frame,) and approached the basin. The steam rose up off the surface of the water and smelled faintly of roses and eucalyptus. 

Eren bathed slowly, loving the feel of the warm water. After a few minutes Erwin reentered the room. 

“Shall I do your back?” he asked softly.

Eren stood, mostly naked in the dim light, and thought about the offer. Yes, that would be lovely. He hadn’t had another human wash his back since his mother had--oh so long ago--when he was a child.

Erwin gently took the cloth out of Eren’s hands and rinsed it in the wash water. Using broad strokes he wiped Eren’s back down slowly. Eren arched into the washcloth without thinking and Erwin chuckled.

“It feels good, does it not?”

“Umm-hmm”

Erwin placed one big hand flat on Eren’s waist to steady him and continued to wipe. The warmth of the room, the heat of the water, the swipe of the cloth, and Erwin’s hand on him combined to make the whole thing surreal and sensuous at the same time. Eren was dimly aware that he was getting an erection.

Erwin seemed to be aware of the reaction he was causing.

“I’m sorry. Shall I stop?”

Eren chewed his lower lip and quickly came to a decision. “No, please don’t.”

The cloth began to stray further, around Eren’s waist, over his hips, across his hairless, smoothly-muscled chest. Erwin was very close behind him now. Close enough for Eren to feel the tickle of Erwin’s chest hair, close enough for him to feel the impressive bulge of Erwin’s own erection.

Suddenly they were facing each other. Erwin dropped the cloth in the vicinity of the washbasin and kissed Eren urgently. They kissed and groped each other for a few minutes, Erwin’s hands sliding over Eren’s slippery skin. Erwin was a very good kisser; licking deeply into Eren’s eagerly open mouth, tongue slipping wetly over Eren’s, teeth nipping his full lips. Soon Erwin’s mouth wandered downward, mapping the tan flesh of the younger man’s neck and chest, nibbling on a nipple. Eren was lost in bliss, marveling at how similar in technique Erwin was to Levi--they must have taught each other a great deal over their years together.

Then, abruptly, Erwin was on his knees and his mouth was on Eren’s cock.

Eren’s head rocked back on his neck and he gasped for air. He had never had anyone put their mouth there before and oh my god the feeling was amazing.

Eren's first instinct was to grab the man's hair but was loathe to disturb the gorgeous golden strands. As if reading his mind, Erwin pulled his mouth away and looked up at Eren from under his lashes. “I am not delicate, Eren. You may be rough. I like that.”

Tentatively Eren fisted Erwin’s hair and Erwin took half of his cock into his mouth. Eren whined, a high, needy sound, and grasped the blond locks tighter. Erwin began a quick sucking rhythm that made Eren’s toes curl.

“Ah! Hah! Erwin! You’ll make me …”

The bigger man came off Eren’s cock with a slurp. “That is the point, no?”

Eren cupped his face in both hands, “But you … I want to please you too.”

Erwin’s face softened.

“Let us go to the bed …?”

Eren, who hadn’t stepped out of his boxers, stumbled a bit in his haste to comply and Erwin chuckled at him.

Soon they were laying together in the bed, facing each other, stroking and fondling, kissing and licking, and rubbing their cocks together. Eren slowly and gingerly reached for Erwin’s rather intimidating member. He had never touched another man’s cock before. Indeed, he’d seen precious few with any clarity and none that were uncircumcised. (The only two dicks he’d been intimate with, Levi’s and his own, were circumcised.) He gripped it determinedly, marveling at the larger-than-average size and tentatively sliding the foreskin back and forth. Erwin laughed gently at his explorations, stroking his face.

“So cute!”

Erwin’s cock was dripping with pre-cum and after only a few minutes he bumped his cock up against Eren’s, took Eren’s hand and wrapped it around both. Putting his own large hand over Eren’s he began a slow stroke. Eren hissed in pleasure, thrusting up into their combined grips, enjoying the slippery slide of Erwin’s foreskin in the mix. Erwin’s desire was showing; he didn’t slow the pace but upped it, buttocks clenching and hips thrusting as he groaned with each pump of their hands. Eren was quickly getting close, too, following Erwin’s lead, his moans and gasps filthy in the small room.

“Your cock is so beautiful,” Erwin grunted, “ _ You _ are so beautiful, you will make me come …”

They came almost simultaneously, cum dripping thickly over their clasped hands.


	9. In Plain Sight

They lay flat on the bed, side by side, both sweaty despite the open window and cool day. Eren's left arm was leaned against Erwin's side and the larger man was stroking his forearm gently.

Eren leaned his head toward the older man. "So, you and Emi--Levi ...? So you're on our side?"

Erwin hummed and turned his face toward Eren.

“You and I just made love and  _ now _ you’re asking if I am on your side?”

“You sound like Emile,” Eren grumbled.

Erwin laughed. “So I do.” His smile faded. “I am not a Nazi, Eren.”

Eren's silence was confused.

"I am a loyal German," Erwin said.

Eren rolled carefully over onto his left side so he could look into Erwin's face. Erwin pushed Eren's hair back off his forehead with one hand. "I believe that Herr Hitler is insane," he whispered "I believe he is destroying my country and wants to destroy yours, too. That is why I fight. That is why I do this."

"You could die. You could be killed. Both of you. You and Emile."

Erwin stroked Eren's arm. "True, but it would be worth it."

“I hate that,” Eren said, “I hate that you’re in danger.”

“Think of it this way: If the war is won by the right people, the Allies, then we can do as we please.” Erwin stroked Eren’s tousled hair. “Well, that’s not strictly true,” he amended, “people like  _ us _ will still have to hide … but we can hide in plain sight.”

He paused, deep in thought, absently smoothing Eren’s hair. “We just have to keep doing the very best we all can to win the war. That’s all we can do.”

There was the faint sound of voices from the alleyway far below, then the laughter of children. The curtain drifted in the light breeze.

Erwin pushed a few more unruly strands of brown hair off of Eren's forehead and out of his eyes.

“Does it bother you that I am so old?” he asked.

“Old? What? NO! You’re what … ?”

“34, and you are 20. That’s 14 years.”

“And Levi is 32. That’s 12,” Eren countered.

“Are you going to care for us in our old age? Spoon us porridge and feed our cats?” Ewin asked, smiling wryly.

Eren snuggled closer to him, their cocks brushing each other. “I will if you’ll have me.” He caressed Erwin's face.

Erwin’s expression suddenly fell and Eren realized the man was close to tears.

“Oh, Erwin! I’m sorry! I …”

Suddenly Erwin kissed him. “No Eren, do not apologize. Please. I am just thinking how lucky I am to have met Levi, to have met you.” He quickly wiped his nose, “I love Levi. I will never leave him unless he asks me to go away. Would you believe me if I said that I think that I’m falling in love with you as well?”

Eren’s chin trembled. “Really?

Supper was almost ready by the time late afternoon rolled around. It was chicken and fresh green beans with a small bread made by a local woman. Erwin broke the bread up and slathered it with butter and Eren ogled the rare spread. Butter was strictly rationed.

"Perks of having a lot of contacts," Erwin said, grinning. "I wish we could have had some of your sausages. God, I miss good sausages!"

"Those were Mrs. Stafford's"

"Your landlady?"

A strange look crossed over Erwin's face and Eren stared. "Are you ... jealous of  _ Mrs. Stafford _ ?"

Erwin grimaced, a look out of place on his handsome face. "She thinks Levi is her ... what is the word? when something replaces something? Starts with an 's'.”

"Surrogate?"

"Yes! She thinks our Levi is her surrogate husband!"

Eren didn't miss the 'our' in that sentence and was contemplating that when there was a tiny noise from the bedroom. It could have been the wind. It could have been a mouse. It was Emile LaPlace.

Without even a pause, Emile came into the kitchen as if it was his own home and he'd just strode through the front door like the man of the house. Erwin half rose and Emile crossed to him immediately, kissing him deeply.

"Thank you," he said as he stroked Erwin's face. "Thank you for taking care of Eren. You did so well." The bigger man smiled like the sun coming out from behind clouds at the praise. Eren looked as needy as he could manage and Emile was already heading around the table toward him. They kissed lingeringly.

Emile straightened and … abruptly stilled, his eyes dilating. Erwin and Eren froze. Emile looked carefully around the room and took a deep, slow, breath through his nose. “You two  _ smell like each other _ … what … what is this?” he whispered.

Eren went red to the tips of his ears and Erwin pinked up. Neither would look him in the eye.

Emile planted a fist on each hip. “Oh, ho! So you two have been  _ playing _ while Levi was away?”

No reply. Erwin looked steadily at his clasped hands and Eren found the pattern in the tiny kitchen rug to be fascinating.

“Answer me,” Emile purred. “Was it good? I can just imagine it ...”

The other two men nodded, sneaking glances at each other and smiling.

“Well, then … that’s good.” Emile said, his voice sultry, a small smile playing around his mouth. “We’ll discuss it further later. Whether you two need to be rewarded or … punished.” 

Erwin sucked in a quick, aroused breath and Eren cut his eyes at him, his own hand straying to his crotch.

Emile clapped his hands together suddenly. "Now, what's for supper?"

  
  


After supper, Emile insisted on doing the dishes despite Erwin’s disgruntled noises. “You cooked, we clean,” Emile explained. I have to tell you this every time!” And he neatly rolled up his sleeves and washed and Eren dried while Erwin puttered about putting up the placemats, shaking out the tablecloth, and sweeping up the nonexistent crumbs off of the floor.

8 o'clock found the three of them sitting in the sitting room together. Erwin and Eren played cards and Emile smoked and watched them with a mixture of contentment and pride. The wireless muttered softly in the corner and Emile thought that he could really get used to this. This peace and feeling of relaxation. This being with people he truly cared for.

Eren was not quite relaxed, though.

"Does Mrs. Stafford ... does she know?"

"That is sweet of you to think of her and Mrs. Stafford thinks you have stayed on the Army base for tonight. It helps that apparently Jean and Marco are also ... em ... spending time together tonight."

Eren smiled despite himself.

Later, when Erwin had gone into the kitchen to get glasses for an aperitif, Eren asked the question he’d been meaning to ask.

"Where will I sleep? The setee in the sitting room is too small ..."

Emile looked as if it was a stupid question. "If you wish, you will sleep in the bed with me." 

"What? What about Erwin?"

"It's his bed. He sleeps there as well."

Eren blushed to his hairline. "All of us? Together?"

Emile cocked an eyebrow, "Yes, why not?"

Eren couldn't think of what to say.

Emile cocked his head. "Do you not find Erwin attractive? You and he ..."

"I do!" rushed out of Eren's mouth before he could stop himself. "but ... but ..."

"Eren. I'm not asking you to fuck anybody. We would be just sleeping in the same bed together."

Eren recalled his own cock perking up at the proximity of Erwin.

"But what if ...?"

"What if someone gets hard?” Emile’s eyes unfocussed. “That is how Erwin and I started off.” he said dreamily, “We were forced to share a bed and I ... well, he was willing and I got a little excited."

Emile caressed Eren's hair. "You don't have to act on your instincts, you know. You can resist. No one will ask you to do anything you don’t want to."

"Did you?"

"Did I What?"

"Resist? When you were in bed with Erwin?"

Emile stared hard at him. "No. I fucked Erwin into the bed and confessed how much I cared for him."

"Well ..."

"Well."

Eren was the first to go to bed. Even though he'd had a lovely nap he was still exhausted. So many new things had happened. He snuggled back into the bed as he had before, but on clean sheets, making sure to keep to one side. Which side though? Which side did Emile like to sleep on? Erwin? How did they sleep? Did they spoon or face away from each other? Eren would just have to find out. 

He slid under the sheets on the side closest to the sitting room and dozed off listening to the murmur of Emile's and Erwin's voices with the wireless soft in the background.

When Eren awoke in the middle of the night his front was up against Emile's hard back, his arms thrown around the smaller man. On inspection, Emile was similarly up against Erwin who faced the wall. Everyone but him was asleep. Eren luxuriated in the warmth for a second, squeezing Emile (who muttered in his sleep) and even stroking Erwin's golden-haired arm.

It was nice, the three of them, together. It was warm and comforting.

Eren’s mind started to stray. He firmly told himself to go back to sleep before his pecker got any ideas.


	10. We three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this final installment is late! Enjoy!

It was a dark and overcast day but had not seemed to want to rain so the Americans were walking up the thoroughfare parallel with the fence surrounding the US Army base. Moblit, Marco, Jean, and Eren had just had a delightful meal and were so full they needed naps but, alas, duty called. They approached the front gate to the base in a leisurely fashion, boots clomping on the cobbles.

“Damn … damn … Is that Hange?” Moblit said.

It  _ was _ Dr. Zoe, she was standing just inside the mouth of the alley across from the base entrance, speaking with two men that Eren immediately recognized as Emile and Erwin.

  
  
  


Hange had just shaken hands with Erwin and was a bit flustered.

“You spy types can be quite good looking!”

Erwin blushed and Emile smiled a tiny smile.

“Now we haven’t much time Hange. Don’t forget. He is a small round man and I’ve only ever seen him dressed as a laborer.”

“Cloth cap, brown cloth coat with a leather collar,” Erwin said, “Be careful.”

Hange clenched her hands together and you’d think she was more excited than afraid.

“Stay on base as much as you can,” cautioned Emile.

“I will! You two stay safe as well!”

Hange turned and, running lightly across the street toward the front gates of the base, heels clicking on the pavement, she showed her ID and slipped inside, walking with a bounce to her stride that made her ponytail bob.

Moblit walked forward a like a man in a dream. Marco and Jean and Eren crowded behind him.  __ Moblit headed down the alleyway, Marco hot on his heels and Jean hot after him. Eren trailed behind, not knowing what to do.

  
  


“Just stop. Stop right there.”

Erwin and Emile froze.

Moblit stepped out of the shadows, a black semi-automatic pistol pointed at Erwin’s belly.

The bigger man slowly raised his hands, showing them empty. Emile repeated the gesture, frowning, his eyes flickering to Eren.

Eren’s heart leaped, fluttering into his throat.  _ No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening! _

“Mobes!” Marco said.

“Sgt. Berner …” Emile murmured.

“For god’s sake Mobe!” Jean said, alarmed.

“Shut up! Just shut up! Everybody  _ shut up!” _ Moblit jerked the gun, “What are you doing here?” He asked Erwin. “Are you following Hange Zoe?!”

“Mr. Bernard, is it?” Erwin began.

“That’s ‘Sgt. Berner’ to you, you Krout shit!”

Marco gripped his friend's arm, causing the gun to lower slightly.

Quick as a snake, almost too fast for a man his size, Erwin withdrew a gun from his jacket. It was old and big, a Mauser c96, and dwarfed Moblit’s Colt 1911. Everyone jumped back, even Emile. By then they were arranged in a loose circle.

Erwin gestured with the long, wicked-looking gun.

“Step back. Lower your gun.”

Marco backed up, hands raised. Moblit never moved.

“Erwin,” Emile said, soothingly.

“I will kill you. I don’t want to, but I will if I have to.” Erwin said to Moblit. Eren gripped his own hair in both hands.

“Tell me why you’re here, so close to the army base? Why are you speaking to Hange Zoe?” Moblit ground out, gun unwavering.

“Jean, stay back!” Marco said. “Everything’s OK, I swear.”

“How can you say that, Marco? What  _ is _ all this?” Eren had to hold the tall sandy-haired man to keep him from rushing forward.

“Everybody just relax,” Emile murmured.

“Levi,” Erwin said. “They will jeopardize everything!”

Three of the four Americans exchanged glances,

_ ‘Levi?’ _

Eren looked desperate. “Emile, tell him to drop his gun!”

“ _ Everyone _ lower his gun,” Emile snapped

Moblit, ignoring everyone, lunged forward and he and Erwin grappled, their guns between them.

Jean was dragging Marco back and Eren was grabbing at Erwin’s hands. Emile struggled to break everyone apart,

“This is Erwin Smith!” Emile yelled, “He’s our  _ ally _ ! He’s been passing false infor--”

Moblit suddenly twisted the Mauser in Erwin’s grip and the big man hissed in pain. Eren leaned in, trying to wrench Moblit’s hand away.

Emile cursed in French, Erwin cursed in German, and there was a sound like fireworks heard from a distance:  _ pop, pop, pop. _ All six men fell back, back into their loose circle, looking wildly at each other.

Time stretched out, sticky, and bitter as pine sap

“These are my good trousers …”

Everyone turned to Marco who was calmly looking at a bloody hole in his khakis, just above his right hip.

“Shit …” Moblit breathed,

“MARCO!”

Jean slid to his knees and caught the black-haired man just as his legs buckled. He cradled him like a baby 

It was at that moment that Emile crumpled to the ground.

“Emile!” Eren said hysterically as blood pooled darkly on the ground beside Emile’s still form.

Erwin moved first, jerking his coat off and struggling out of his starched white dress shirt. He wadded the fabric up and pressed it - hard - against the bloody hole in Marco’s trousers. The young American moaned.

“Leave him alone you piece of shit!” Jean said, his voice strangling on tears.

Marco looked weakly into his lover’s face.

“Don’t be stupid, Jean,” he murmured. “He’s helping.”

“Hold this, hard, on the wound,” Erwin said, rising. He stripped off his pristine white undershirt then and knelt by Emile.

“Ah, Levi, Levi,” he murmured, then in german, _ “We were both supposed to make it out of this alive.” _

Eren sank down on Emile’s other side, tears running down his face, “What can I do to … to help? Oh my god, Emile! Please be OK!”

Erwin gestured to the undershirt that he’d placed against the wound in Emile’s right side. “Press down, hard on this and …”

_ “Hello, Erwin Schmidt, you bastard,” _

The words were in German but the intent was clear. Erwin froze still as a statue. It was the portly man in the cloth cap.  He was short and round and swarthy and clearly pleased with himself.  He waved his gun casually around the group. “Stay still, stupid Americans,”

Eren began to rise in anger and Erwin’s big hand shot out and fisted into the front of the younger man’s shirt.

“Don’t be foolish,  _ Hübscher,”  _ Erwin murmured.

_ “Ah, ah, you dog. Don’t try to protect them,” _ the man in the cloth cap said in German,  _ “You’re probably sticking your dick in them all,” _ He chuckled at that, pleased with his own wit.

Blood was soaking through the undershirt Eren had pressed to Levi’s right side. Eren moaned, locking eyes with Erwin.

_ “Too stupid to hear a third shot,” _ the man in the cloth cap was saying,  _ “Too much caring for other people.” _ He leaned down and poked at Eren’s shoulder with the muzzle of his gun. “You shouldn’t care, boy.” he said in English, “Lovers are easily replaced.” Eren’s lips pulled back into a snarl and he licked at the tears caught at the edges of his mouth.

What the spy had said was true. Erwin’s shot had gone wide, Moblit’s had hit Marco, and the man in the cloth cap had shot Emile from a side alley while they were all distracted.

“You’ve all been duped,” Cap Man said happily. This is Levi Ackermann! A famous traitor of France where they call him  _ L'araignée _ ! The renowned Spider! He’s been selling your secrets to us for years!”

Tears ran silently down Eren’s face.

“That’s not true, you pig,” Erwin said.

“It’s not,” a voice said. It was Levi. He turned his head and spat a mouthful of blood out. “It’s a damned lie.” He struggled up onto one elbow, grimacing.

_ "espèce d'abruti !" _ The man snarled in heavily German-accented French. Emile stiffened and turned his head slowly.

_ “ _ _ L'araignée,” _ the man said, sneering.

Levi betrayed no emotion at all save for his body strung tight as a guy wire.

“What is he saying?” Eren whispered.

Erwin shrugged. He didn’t speak French.

_ “You don’t have to speak French.”  _ Levi said to the man, finally, in German.  _ “As a matter of fact, do me a favor and  _ don’t  _ speak French. It is offensive coming from a creature like you.” _

The squat little man snarled

“None of what you say is true. It’s a ruse …” Levi coughed harshly, spraying blood. “... It’s all been a ruse … to mislead the Germans.”

_ “You miserable dog!” _ The man in the cloth cap said, stepping forward. _ “I’ll kill you and silence that lying mouth of yours! Then I’ll kill these Ameri--” _

There was a sudden sharp crack of a gun. Blood sprayed from the side of the portly man’s head, knocking away his cap, and he collapsed into a grotesque heap on the tarmac. All eyes turned to Moblit who still held his gun steady on the man’s still form. For a long while no one moved at all then, finally, Erwin crossed to check the man’s pulse, and Jean forcefully lowered Moblit’s arm.

“He’s dead.” Erwin said.

“Good,” spat Moblit, finally lowering the gun, “Goddamn good.”

  
  


Eren fussed around the hospital bed like a nurse, straightening the sheet, plumping the pillow. “They got the bullet out of Marco--yours went right through--and you both lost a lot of blood …”

Levi grabbed the boy by the lapel of his coat and pulled him down into a kiss, silencing him. They parted quickly, each knowing the danger of such an act in such a public place. But it had soothed Eren and he smiled.

“I missed you.”

“I was only unconscious for a few hours.”

“Still …” Eren blushed.

“I missed you too,” a baritone voice said from the door. It was Erwin, smiling, and bearing flowers. After a quick look around, he, too, leaned down to kiss Levi. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, he turned to kiss Eren.

Time seemed to slow down as Levi stared at his two lovers, lips parted, eyebrows raised.  _ Could this work?  _

You see, Emile and Erwin had disappeared. 

When confronted by the authorities in the alleyway after the shootings, Levi and Erwin had presented their real papers with their  _ real _ names and Emile LaPlace and Erwin Smith had ceased to exist. They had each sent a letter to their respective landladies (they would have worried) and Erwin broke into both his old apartment and Mrs. Stafford’s and had stolen the telegraph machines, throwing them in the Thames. He had then burnt all of their other papers and anything tying them to Hange or each other.

Their contribution to the war was done. They were free.

  
  


Epilogue - 1982 - 40 years later - United States

“It’s fucking freezing, I say” Levi grumbled. He pulled his ever-present grey sweater closer around his chest.

“Levi, It’s Florida, it’s never freezing,” Eren said.

“Who’s up for margaritas?” It was Erwin, walking into the room with a tray.

“About damn time,” Levi said.

“That’s just gonna make you colder,” Eren said, handing Levi one.

“Too bad,” Levi said, taking a sip, “I’ll live. Perfect as always, Erwin.” 

Erwin smiled and bent to kiss him lingeringly.

“Are we all up for a walk on the beach this evening?” Eren asked, “It’s going to be lovely out.”

“It’ll probably be too fucking cold,’ Levi groused gulping at his icy margarita. “Too much salt, Erwin.”

“You just said it was perfect!”

“I was being kind.”

“You crabby old fart,” Eren laughed

“Watch yourself, youngster. This crabby old fart will fuck you into the bed after our walk. You too, Blondie!”

Erwin laughed into his drink while Eren kissed Levi fondly. “I’m hoping so!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are at the end. Thank you for reading and thank you for all your kudos and lovely comments. If you haven't commented yet (or even if you have!) drop me a comment and tell me what you thought. I love hearing from you all! <3


End file.
